ON AN EXCEPTIONALLY HOT evening early in July a young man came out of the tiny room which he rented from tenants in S. Place1 and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. Bridge.2 He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the stairs. His closet of a room was under the roof of a high, five-floor house and was more like a cupboard than a place in which to live. The landlady who provided him with the room and with dinner and service lived on the floor below, and every time he went out he was obliged to pass her kitchen, the door of which was always open. And each time he passed, the young man had a sick, frightened feeling, which made him grimace and feel ashamed. He was hopelessly in debt to his landlady and was afraid of meeting her. This was not because he was cowardly and browbeaten, quite the contrary; but for some time past he had been in an overstrained irritable condition, verging on hypochondria. He had become so completely absorbed in himself and isolated from everyone else that he dreaded meeting not only his landlady, but anyone at all. He was crushed by poverty, but even the anxieties of his position had recently ceased to weigh upon him. He had given up attending to matters of practical importance; he had lost all desire to do so. In fact, nothing that any landlady could do held any terror for him. But to be stopped on the stairs, to be forced to listen to her trivial, irrelevant gossip, to pestering demands for payment, threats and complaints, all the while racking his brains for excuses, avoiding the issue, lying no, he would rather creep down the stairs like a cat and slip out unseen. However, when he emerged onto the street that evening, he became acutely aware of his fears. "I want to attempt a thing like that and am frightened by these trifles," he thought, with an odd smile. "Hm . . . yes, everything is in someone hands and they let it all slip out of cowardice, that an axiom. It would be interesting to know what it is people are most afraid of. Taking a new step, uttering a new word is what they fear most . . . But I am talking too much. It because I babble that I do nothing. Or perhaps it is that I babble because I do nothing. I've learned to babble this last month, lying for days on end in my corner thinking . . . just nonsense. Why am I going there now? Am I capable of that? Is that seriously possible? I'm not serious about it at all. It just a fantasy to amuse myself; a plaything! Yes, maybe it is a plaything." The heat in the street was terrible: and the airlessness, the bustle, the plaster, the scaffolding, the bricks and the dust all around him, and that special Petersburg stench, so familiar to everyone who is unable to get out of town during the summer all worked painfully upon the young man already overwrought nerves. The unbearable stench from the taverns, which are particularly numerous in that part of the town, and the drunken men whom he met continually, although it was a weekday, completed the revolting misery of the picture. An expression of the deepest disgust gleamed for a moment in the young man refined face. He was, by the way, exceptionally handsome, above average in height, slim, well-built, with beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair. Soon, though, he sank into deep thought, or more accurately speaking into a complete blankness of mind; he walked along not observing what was around him and not caring to observe it. From time to time, because he used to talk to himself, he would mutter something, a habit to which he had just confessed. At these moments he would become conscious that his ideas were sometimes in a tangle and that he was very weak; for two days he had had almost nothing to eat. He was so badly dressed that even a man accustomed to shabbiness would have been ashamed to be seen in the street in such rags. In that part of town, however, scarcely any shortcoming in dress would have created surprise. Due to the proximity of the Haymarket, the number of establishments of a certain kind and the overwhelming numbers of craftsmen and workers crowded in these streets and alleys at the center of Petersburg, so many different types of people were to be seen in the streets that no figure, however strange, would have caused surprise. But there was such accumulated spite and contempt in the young man heart, that, in spite of all the cares of youth, he minded his rags least of all. It was a different matter when he met with acquaintances or with former fellow students, whom, indeed, he disliked meeting at any time. And yet when a drunken man who, for some unknown reason, was being taken somewhere in a huge cart dragged by a heavy cart-horse, suddenly shouted at him as he drove past, "Hey there, German hatter," bellowing at the top of his voice and pointing at him the young man stopped suddenly and clutched trembling at his hat. It was a tall round one from Zimmermann ,3 but completely worn out, rusty with age, all torn and bespattered, brimless and bent on one side in a most hideous fashion. Not shame, however, but another feeling akin to terror had overtaken him. "I knew it," he muttered in confusion, "I thought so! That the worst of all! A stupid thing like this, the most trivial detail might spoil the whole plan. Yes, my hat is too noticeable . . . It looks absurd and that makes it noticeable . . . With my rags I ought to wear a cap, any old pancake, but not this grotesque thing. Nobody wears hats like this, it would be noticed a mile off, it would be remembered... What matters is that people would remember it, and that would give them a clue. For this business I should be as unnoticeable as possible . . . Trifles, trifles are what matter! It just such trifles that always ruin everything . . . " He did not have far to go; he knew indeed how many steps it was from the gate of his house: exactly seven hundred and thirty. He had counted them once when he had been lost in dreams. At the time he had put no faith in those dreams and was only tantalizing himself with their hideous insolence. Now, a month later, he had begun to look upon them differently, and, in spite of the monologues in which he jeered at his own impotence and indecision, he had even, involuntarily as it were, come to regard this "hideous" dream as an exploit to be attempted, although he still did not quite believe in this himself. He was now definitely going for a "rehearsal" of this undertaking of his, and at every step he grew more and more excited. With a sinking heart and a nervous tremor, he went up to a huge house which on one side looked on to the canal, and on the other into the street. This house was let out in tiny apartments and was inhabited by working people of all kinds tailors, locksmiths, cooks, Germans of all sorts, girls picking up a living as best they could, petty clerks, etc. There was a continual coming and going through the two gates and in the two courtyards of the house. Three or four door-keepers were employed in the building. The young man was very glad not to meet any of them, and at once slipped unnoticed through the door on the right, and up the staircase. It was a back staircase, dark and narrow, but he was familiar with it already, and knew his way, and he liked all these surroundings: in such darkness even the most inquisitive eyes were not to be feared. "If I am so scared now, what would it be if it somehow came to pass that I were really going to do it?" he could not help asking himself as he reached the fourth floor. There his progress was barred by some porters who were moving furniture out of an apartment. He knew that the apartment had been occupied by a German clerk in the civil service, and his family. This German was moving out then, and so the fourth floor on this staircase would be vacant except for the old woman. "That a good thing anyway," he thought to himself, as he rang the bell of the old woman flat. The bell gave a faint tinkle as though it were made of tin and not of copper. The little apartments in such houses always have bells that ring like that. He had forgotten the note of that bell, and now its peculiar tinkle seemed to remind him of something and to bring it clearly before him . . . He gave a start, his nerves were terribly overstrained by now. In a little while, the door was opened a tiny crack: the old woman eyed her visitor with evident distrust through the crack, and nothing could be seen but her little eyes, glittering in the darkness. But, seeing a number of people on the landing, she grew bolder, and opened the door wide. The young man stepped into the dark entryway, which was partitioned off from the tiny kitchen. The old woman stood facing him in silence and looking inquiringly at him. She was a diminutive, withered old woman of sixty, with sharp mean eyes and a sharp little nose. Her colorless, somewhat grizzled hair was thickly smeared with oil, and she wore no kerchief over it. Round her thin long neck, which looked like a hen leg, was knotted some sort of flannel rag, and, in spite of the heat, there hung flapping on her shoulders a tattered fur cape, yellow with age. The old woman coughed and groaned at every instant. The young man must have looked at her with a rather peculiar expression, for a gleam of mistrust came into her eyes again. "Raskolnikov, a student, I came here a month ago," the young man made haste to mutter, with a half bow, remembering that he ought to be more polite. "I remember, sir, I remember quite well your coming here," the old woman said distinctly, still keeping her inquiring eyes on his face. "And here . . . I am again on the same errand," Raskolnikov continued, a little disconcerted and surprised at the old woman mistrust. "Perhaps she is always like that though, only I did not notice it the other time," he thought with an uneasy feeling. The old woman paused, as though hesitating; then stepped to the side, and pointing to the door of the room, she said, letting her visitor pass in front of her: "Step in, sir." The little room the young man walked into, with yellow paper on the walls, geraniums and muslin curtains in the windows, was brightly lit up at that moment by the setting sun. "So the sun will shine like this then too!" flashed as it were by chance through Raskolnikov mind, and with a rapid glance he scanned everything in the room, trying as far as possible to notice and remember its arrangement. But there was nothing special in the room. The furniture, all very old and made of yellow wood, consisted of a sofa with a huge bent wooden back, an oval table in front of the sofa, a dressing-table with a mirror fixed on it between the windows, chairs along the walls and two or three cheap prints in yellow frames, representing German maidens with birds in their hands that was all. In the corner a light was burning in front of a small icon. Everything was very clean; the floor and the furniture were brightly polished; everything shone. "Lizaveta work," thought the young man. There was not a speck of dust to be seen in the whole apartment. "It in the houses of spiteful old widows that one finds such cleanliness," Raskolnikov thought again, and he stole a curious glance at the cotton curtain over the door leading into another tiny room, in which stood the old woman bed and chest of drawers and into which he had never looked before. These two rooms made up the whole apartment. "What do you want?" the old woman said severely, coming into the room and, as before, standing in front of him so as to look him straight in the face. "I've brought something to pawn here," and he drew out of his pocket an old-fashioned flat silver watch, on the back of which was engraved a globe; the chain was of steel. "But the time is up for your last pledge. The month was up the day before yesterday." "I will bring you the interest for another month; wait a little." "That for me to do as I please, sir, to wait or to sell your pledge at once." "How much will you give me for the watch, Aliona Ivanovna?" "You come with such trifles, sir, it scarcely worth anything. I gave you two rubles last time for your ring and one could buy it quite new at a jeweler for a ruble and a half." "Give me four rubles for it, I will redeem it, it was my father . I will be getting some money soon." "A ruble and a half, and interest in advance, if you like!" "A ruble and a half!" cried the young man. "As you wish" and the old woman handed him back the watch. The young man took it, and was so angry that he was on the point of going away; but checked himself at once, remembering that there was nowhere else he could go, and that he had had another reason for coming. "Hand it over," he said roughly. The old woman fumbled in her pocket for her keys, and disappeared behind the curtain into the other room. The young man, left standing alone in the middle of the room, listened inquisitively, thinking. He could hear her unlocking the chest of drawers. "It must be the top drawer," he reflected. "So she carries the keys in a pocket on the right. All in one bunch on a steel ring . . . And there one key there, three times as big as all the others, with deep notches; that can't be the key for the chest of drawers . . . then there must be some other chest or strong-box . . . that worth knowing. Strong-boxes always have keys like that . . . but how degrading it all is." The old woman came back. "Here, sir: as we say ten kopecks the ruble a month, so I must take fifteen kopecks from a ruble and a half for the month in advance. But for the two rubles I lent you before, you owe me now twenty kopecks on the same reckoning in advance. That makes thirty-five kopecks altogether. So I must give you a ruble and fifteen kopecks for the watch. Here it is." "What! Only a ruble and fifteen kopecks now!" "Exactly." The young man did not dispute it and took the money. He looked at the old woman, and was in no hurry to get away, as though there was still something he wanted to say or to do, but he did not himself quite know what. "I may be bringing you something else in a day or two, Aliona Ivanovna a valuable thing, silver, a cigarette box, as soon as I get it back from a friend . . . " he broke off in confusion. "Well, we will talk about it then, sir." "Goodbye are you always at home alone, your sister is not here with you?" he asked her as casually as possible as he went out into the passage. "What business is she of yours, sir?" "Oh, nothing particular, I simply asked. You are too quick . . . Good-day, Aliona Ivanovna." Raskolnikov went out in complete confusion. This confusion became more and more intense. As he went down the stairs, he even stopped short, two or three times, as though suddenly struck by some thought. When he was in the street he cried out, "Oh, God, how loathsome it all is! and can I, can I possibly . . . No, it nonsense, it absurd!" he added resolutely. "And how could such an atrocious thing come into my head? What filthy things my heart is capable of. Yes, filthy above all, disgusting, loathsome, loathsome! and for a whole month I've been . . . " But no words, no exclamations, could express his agitation. The feeling of intense repulsion, which had begun to oppress and torture his heart while he was on his way to the old woman, had by now reached such a pitch and had taken such a definite form that he did not know what to do with himself to escape from his wretchedness. He walked along the pavement like a drunken man, oblivious of the passersby, and jostling against them, and only came to his senses when he was in the next street. Looking round, he noticed that he was standing close to a tavern which was entered by steps leading from the pavement to the basement. At that instant two drunken men came out of the door and, abusing and supporting one another, they mounted the steps. Without stopping to think, Raskolnikov went down the steps at once. Until that moment he had never been into a tavern, but now he felt dizzy and was tormented by a burning thirst. He longed for a drink of cold beer, and attributed his sudden weakness to hunger. He sat down at a sticky little table in a dark and dirty corner; ordered some beer, and eagerly drank off the first glassful. At once he felt relief; and his thoughts became clear. "All that nonsense," he said hopefully, "and there is nothing in it all to worry about! It simply physical weakness. Just a glass of beer, a piece of dry bread and in one moment the brain is stronger, the mind is clearer and the will is firm! Pah, how utterly petty it all is!" But, though he spat this out so scornfully, he was by now looking cheerful as though he were suddenly set free from a terrible burden: and he gazed round in a friendly way at the people in the room. But even at that moment he had a dim foreboding that this happier frame of mind was also not normal. There were few people at the time in the tavern. Besides the two drunken men he had met on the steps, a group consisting of about five men, with a girl and a concertina, had gone out at the same time. Their departure left the room quiet and rather empty. The persons remaining were a man who appeared to be an artisan, drunk, but not extremely so, sitting with a beer, and his companion, a huge, stout man with a gray beard, in a short full-skirted coat. He was very drunk and had dozed off on the bench; every now and then, as if in his sleep, he began cracking his fingers, with his arms wide apart and the upper part of his body bouncing about on the bench, while he hummed some meaningless refrain, trying to recall some such lines as these: "His wife a year he stroked and loved His wife a a year he stroked and loved." Or suddenly waking up again: "Walking along the crowded row He met the one he used to know." But no-one shared his enjoyment: his silent companion looked at all these outbursts with hostility and mistrust. There was another man in the room who looked somewhat like a retired government clerk. He was sitting apart, sipping now and then from his mug and looking round at the company. He, too, appeared to be somewhat excited. CHAPTER TWO RASKOLNIKOV WAS NOT USED to crowds, and, as was said previously, he avoided society of every sort, especially recently. But now all at once he felt a desire to be with other people. Something new seemed to be taking place within him, and with it he felt a sort of thirst for company. He was so weary after a whole month of concentrated wretchedness and gloomy excitement that he longed to rest, if only for a moment, in some other world, whatever it might be; and, in spite of the filthiness of the surroundings, he was glad now to stay in the tavern. The owner of the establishment was in another room, but he frequently came down some steps into the main room, his jaunty, polished boots with red turn-over tops coming into view each time before the rest of him. He wore a full coat and a horribly greasy black satin waistcoat, with no cravat, and his whole face seemed smeared with oil like an iron lock. At the counter stood a boy of about fourteen, and there was another somewhat younger boy who served the customers. On the counter lay some sliced cucumber, some pieces of dried black bread, and some fish chopped up into little pieces, all smelling very bad. It was unbearably humid, and so heavy with the fumes of alcohol that five minutes in such an atmosphere could well cause drunkenness. We all have chance meetings with people, even with complete strangers, who interest us at first glance, suddenly, before a word is spoken. Such was the impression made on Raskolnikov by the person sitting a little distance from him, who looked like a retired clerk. The young man often recalled this impression afterwards, and even ascribed it to presentiment. He looked repeatedly at the clerk, partly no doubt because the latter was staring persistently at him, obviously anxious to enter into conversation. The clerk looked at the other persons in the room, including the tavern-keeper, as though he were used to their company, and weary of it, showing at the same time a shade of patronizing contempt for them as members of a culture inferior to his own, with whom it would be useless for him to converse. He was over fifty, bald and grizzled, of medium height, and stoutly built. His face, bloated from continual drinking, was of a yellow, even greenish, tinge, with swollen eyelids out of which keen reddish eyes gleamed like little slits. But there was something very strange in him; there was a light in his eyes as though of intense feeling perhaps there was even a streak of thought and intelligence, but at the same time they gleamed with something like madness. He was wearing an old and hopelessly ragged black dress coat, with all its buttons missing except one, which he had buttoned, evidently wishing to preserve his respectability. A crumpled shirt front covered with spots and stains, protruded from his canvas waistcoat. Like a clerk, he did not have a beard or a moustache, but had been so long unshaven that his chin looked like a stiff grayish brush. And there was also something respectable and official about his manner. But he was restless; he ruffled up his hair and from time to time let his head drop into his hands dejectedly resting his ragged elbows on the stained and sticky table. At last he looked straight at Raskolnikov, and said loudly and resolutely: "May I venture, dear sir, to engage you in polite conversation? For although your exterior would not command respect, my experience distinguishes in you a man of education and not accustomed to drinking. I have always respected education united with genuine feelings, and I am besides a titular councilor in rank. Marmeladov that is my name; titular councilor. May I inquire have you been in the service?" "No, I am studying," answered the young man, somewhat surprised at the grand style of the speaker and also at being so directly addressed. In spite of the momentary desire he had just been feeling for company of any sort, when he was actually spoken to he felt his habitual irritable uneasiness at any stranger who approached or attempted to approach him. "A student then, or a former student," cried the clerk. "Just what I thought! I'm a man of experience, immense experience, sir," and he tapped his forehead with his fingers in self-approval. "You've been a student or have attended some learned institution! . . . But allow me ... " He got up, staggered, took up his jug and glass, and sat down beside the young man, facing him a little sideways. He was drunk, but spoke fluently and boldly, only occasionally losing the thread of his sentences and drawling his words. He pounced upon Raskolnikov as greedily as though he too had not spoken to a soul for a month. "Dear sir," he began almost with solemnity, "poverty is not a vice, that a true saying. Yet I know too that drunkenness is not a virtue, and that that even truer. But destitution, dear sir, destitution is a vice. In poverty you may still retain your innate nobility of soul, but in destitution never no-one. For destitution a man is not chased out of human society with a stick, he is swept out with a broom, so as to make it as humiliating as possible; and quite right, too, for in destitution I am the first to humiliate myself. Hence the tavern! Dear sir, a month ago Mr. Lebeziatnikov gave my wife a beating, and my wife is a very different matter from me! Do you understand? Allow me to ask you another question out of simple curiosity: have you ever spent a night on a hay barge, on the Neva?" "No, I haven't," answered Raskolnikov. "What do you mean?" "Well, I've just come from one and it the fifth night . . . " He filled his glass, emptied it and paused. Bits of hay were in fact clinging to his clothes and sticking to his hair. It seemed quite probable that he had not undressed or washed for the last five days. His hands, particularly, were filthy. They were fat and red, with black nails. His conversation seemed to excite a general though languid interest. The boys at the counter began to snigger. The innkeeper came down from the upper room, apparently on purpose to listen to the "clown" and sat down at a little distance, yawning lazily, but with dignity. Evidently Marmeladov was a familiar figure here, and he had most likely acquired his weakness for high-flown speeches from the habit of frequently entering into conversation with strangers of all sorts in the tavern. This habit develops into a necessity in some drunkards, and especially in those who are looked after strictly and kept in order at home. Hence in the company of other drinkers they try to justify themselves and even if possible obtain respect. "Clown!" pronounced the innkeeper. "And why don't ya work, why aren't ya at the office, if y'are an official?" "Why am I not at the office, dear sir," Marmeladov went on, addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov, as though it had been he who put that question to him. "Why am I not at the office? Does not my heart ache to think what a useless worm I am? A month ago when Mr. Lebeziatnikov beat my wife with his own hands, and I lay drunk, didn't I suffer? Excuse me, young man, has it ever happened to you . . . hm . . . well, to ask hopelessly for a loan?" "Yes, it has. But what do you mean by hopelessly?" "Hopelessly in the fullest sense, when you know beforehand that you will get nothing by it. You know, for instance, beforehand with positive certainty that this man, this most reputable and exemplary citizen, will on no consideration give you money; and indeed I ask you why should he? For he knows of course that I won't pay it back. From compassion? But Mr. Lebeziatnikov who keeps up with modern ideas explained the other day that compassion is forbidden nowadays by science itself, and that that how it is done now in England, where there is political economy. Why, I ask you, should he give it to me? And knowing beforehand that he won't, you set off to him and . . . " "Why do you go?" put in Raskolnikov. "But what if there is no-one, nowhere else one can go! For every man must have somewhere to go. Since there are times when one absolutely must go somewhere! When my own daughter first went out with a yellow ticket,4 then I had to go . . . (for my daughter has a yellow ticket)," he added in parenthesis, looking with a certain uneasiness at the young man. "No matter, sir, no matter!" he went on hurriedly and with apparent composure when both the boys at the counter guffawed and even the innkeeper smiled "No matter, I am not embarrassed by the wagging of their heads; for every one knows everything about it already, and all that is secret will be revealed. And I accept it all, not with contempt, but with humility. So be it! So be it! ?ÄòBehold the man!' Excuse me, young man, can you . . . No, to put it more strongly and more distinctly; not can you but dare you, looking upon me, assert that I am not a pig?" The young man did not answer a word. "Well," the orator began again persistently and with even more dignity, after waiting for the laughter in the room to subside. "Well, so be it, I am a pig, but she is a lady! I have the semblance of a beast, but Katerina Ivanovna, my spouse, is a person of education and an officer daughter. Granted, granted, I am a scoundrel, but she is a woman of a noble heart, full of sentiments, refined by education. And yet . . . oh, if only she pitied me! Dear sir, dear sir, you know every man ought to have at least one place where people pity him! But Katerina Ivanovna, though she is generous, she is unjust . . . And yet, although I realize that when she pulls my hair she does it merely out of pity for I repeat without being ashamed, she pulls my hair, young man," he declared with redoubled dignity, hearing the sniggering again "but, my God, if she would but once . . . But no, no! It all in vain and it no use talking! No use talking! For more than once, my wish did come true and more than once she has taken pity on me but . . . such is my trait and I am a beast by nature!" "Rather!" assented the innkeeper yawning. Marmeladov struck his fist resolutely on the table. "Such is my trait! Do you know, sir, do you know, I have sold her very stockings for drink? Not her shoes that would be more or less in the order of things, but her stockings, her stockings I have sold for drink! Her mohair shawl I sold for drink, a present to her long ago, her own property, not mine; and we live in a cold room and she caught cold this winter and has begun coughing and spitting blood too. We have three little children and Katerina Ivanovna is at work from morning till night; she is scrubbing and cleaning and washing the children, for she been used to cleanliness from childhood. But her chest is weak and she has a tendency to consumption and I feel it! Do you suppose I don't feel it? And the more I drink the more I feel it. That why I drink, to find sympathy and feeling in drink . . . I drink because I want to suffer profoundly!" And as though in despair he laid his head down on the table. "Young man," he went on, raising his head again, "in your face I seem to read some kind of sorrow. When you came in I read it, and that was why I addressed you at once. For in unfolding to you the story of my life, I do not wish to make myself a laughing-stock before these idle listeners, who indeed know all about it already, but I am looking for a man of feeling and education. Know then that my wife was educated in a high-class school for the daughters of noble-men, and on leaving she danced the shawl dance before the governor and other personages, for which she was presented with a gold medal and a certificate of merit. The medal . . . well, the medal of course was sold long ago, hm . . . but the certificate of merit is in her trunk still and not long ago she showed it to our landlady. And although she quarrels with the landlady most continually, yet she wanted to boast to someone or other of her past honors and to tell of the happy days that are gone. I don't condemn her for it, I don't condemn her, for the one thing left her is her memories of the past, and all the rest is dust and ashes! Yes, yes, she is a hot-tempered lady, proud and determined. She scrubs the floors herself and has nothing but black bread to eat, but won't allow herself to be treated with disrespect. That why she would not overlook Mr. Lebeziatnikov rudeness to her, and so when he gave her a beating for it, she took to her bed more from the hurt to her feelings than from the blows. She was a widow when I married her, with three children, one smaller than the other. She married her first husband, an infantry officer, for love, and ran away with him from her father house. She loved her husband very much; but he gave way to cards, wound up in court and with that he died. He used to beat her at the end: and although she didn't let him get away with it, of which I have authentic documentary evidence, to this day she speaks of him with tears and she throws him up to me; and I am glad, I am glad that, though only in imagination, she should think of herself as having once been happy . . . And she was left at his death with three children in a beastly and remote district where I happened to be at the time; and she was left in such hopeless destitution that, although I have seen many ups and downs of all sorts, I am unable to describe it even. Her relations had all abandoned her. And she was proud, too, excessively proud . . . And then, dear sir, and then, I, being at the time a widower, with a daughter of fourteen left me by my first wife, offered her my hand, for I could not bear the sight of such suffering. You can judge the extremity of her calamities, that she, a woman of education and culture and distinguished family, should have consented to be my wife. But she did! Weeping and sobbing and wringing her hands, she married me! For she had nowhere to turn! Do you understand, dear sir, do you understand what it means when you have absolutely nowhere to turn? No, that you don't understand yet . . . And for a whole year, I performed my duties conscientiously and faithfully, and did not touch this" (he tapped the jug with his finger), "for I have feelings. But even so, I could not please her; and then I lost my place too, and that through no fault of mine but through changes in the office; and then I did touch it! . . . It will already be a year and a half ago since we found ourselves at last after many wanderings and numerous calamities in this magnificent capital, adorned with innumerable monuments. Here, too, I obtained a position . . . I obtained it and I lost it again. Do you understand? This time it was through my own fault I lost it: for my trait had come out . . . We have now a corner at Amalia Fiodorovna Lippewechsel ; and what we live upon and what we pay our rent with, I could not say. There are a lot of people living there besides ourselves. A most abominable Sodom . . . hm . . . yes . . . And meanwhile my daughter by my first wife has grown up; and what my daughter has had to put up with from her step-mother whilst she was growing up, I won't speak of. For, though Katerina Ivanovna is full of generous feelings, she is a high-tempered lady, irritable, and will cut you off ...Yes. But it no use going over that! Sonia, as you may well imagine, has had no education. I did make an effort four years ago to give her a course of geography and world history, but as I was not very well up in those subjects myself and we had no suitable manuals, and what books we had . . . hm, anyway, we don't have them now, those books, so all our instruction came to an end. We stopped at Cyrus of Persia.5 Since she has attained years of maturity, she has read other books of novelistic tendency and recently she had read with great interest a book she got through Mr. Lebeziatnikov, Lewes' Physiology6 do you know it? and even recounted extracts from it to us: and that the whole of her education. And now may I venture to address you, dear sir, on my own account with a private question. Do you suppose that a respectable poor girl can earn much by honest work? Not fifteen kopecks a day can she earn, if she is respectable and has no special talent and that without putting her work down for an instant! And what more, Ivan Ivanich Klopstock the state councilor have you heard of him? has not to this day paid her for the half-dozen Holland shirts she made him and drove her away insulted, stamping and calling her names, on the pretext that the shirt collars were not made the right size and were put in askew. And there are the little ones hungry . . . And Katerina Ivanovna walking up and down and wringing her hands, her cheeks flushed red, as they always are in that disease: ?ÄòYou sponger,' says she, ?Äòliving with us, eating and drinking and keeping warm.' And much she gets to eat and drink when there is not a crust for the little ones for three days! I was lying at the time . . . well, what of it! I was lying drunk and I heard my Sonia speaking (she is a meek creature with a gentle little voice . . . fair hair and such a pale, thin little face). She said: ?ÄòKaterina Ivanovna, am I really to do a thing like that?' Daria Frantsevna, an evil-minded woman and very well known to the police, had two or three times already tried to get at her through the landlady. ?ÄòAnd why not?' said Katerina Ivanovna with a jeer, ?Äòwhat there to save? Some treasure!' But don't blame her, don't blame her, dear sir, don't blame her! She was not in her right mind when she spoke, but driven to distraction by her illness and the crying of the hungry children; and it was said more to wound her than in any precise sense . . . For that Katerina Ivanovna character, and when children cry, even from hunger, she starts beating them at once. At six o'clock or so I saw Sonechka get up, put on her kerchief, put on her cape, and go out of the room, and about nine o'clock she came back. She walked straight up to Katerina Ivanovna and she laid thirty rubles on the table before her in silence. She did not utter a word, she did not even look at her, she simply picked up our big green woolen shawl (we all use it, this woolen shawl), put it over her head and face and lay down on the bed with her face to the wall; only her little shoulders and her body kept shuddering . . . And I went on lying there, just as before . . . And then I saw, young man, I saw Katerina Ivanovna, in the same silence go up to Sonechka little bed; she was on her knees all evening kissing Sonia feet, and would not get up, and then they both fell asleep in each other arms . . . together, together . . . yes . . . and I . . . lay drunk." Marmeladov stopped short, as though his voice had failed him. Then he hurriedly filled his glass, drank, and cleared his throat. "Since then, sir," he went on after a brief pause "Since then, due to an unfortunate occurrence and through information given by evil-intentioned persons in all of which Daria Frantsevna took a leading part on the pretext that she had been treated with too little respect since then my daughter Sofia Semionovna has been forced to take a yellow ticket, and owing to that she is unable to go on living with us. For our landlady, Amalia Fiodorovna would not hear of it (though she had backed up Daria Frantsevna before) and Mr. Lebeziatnikov too . . . hm . . . All the trouble between him and Katerina Ivanovna was on Sonia account. At first he was after Sonechka himself and then all of a sudden he got into a huff: ?Äòhow,' said he, ?Äòcan an enlightened man like me live in the same rooms with a girl like that?' And Katerina Ivanovna would not let it pass, she stood up for her . . . and so that how it happened. And Sonechka comes to us now, mostly after dark; she comforts Katerina Ivanovna and gives her all she can . . . She has a room at the tailor Kapernaumov, she rents from them; Kapernaumov is a lame man with a cleft palate and all of his numerous family have cleft palates too. And his wife, too, has a cleft palate. They all live in one room, but Sonia has her own, partitioned off . . . Hm . . . yes . . . very poor people and all with cleft palates . . . yes. As soon as I got up in the morning, I put on my rags, lifted up my hands to heaven and set off to his excellency Ivan Afanasyevich. His excellency Ivan Afanasyevich, do you know him? No? Well, then, it a man of God you don't know. He is wax . . . wax before the face of the Lord; even as wax melteth! . . . He even shed tears when he heard my story. ?ÄòMarmeladov, once already you have deceived my expectations . . . I'll take you once more on my own responsibility' that what he said, ?Äòremember,' he said, ?Äòand now you can go.' I kissed the dust at his feet in thought only, for in reality he would not have allowed me to do it, being a statesman and a man of modern political and enlightened ideas. I returned home, and when I announced that I'd been taken back into the service and should receive a salary, heavens, what a to-do there was . . . !" Marmeladov stopped again in violent excitement. At that moment a whole party of drunkards already drunk came in from the street, and the sounds of a hired concertina and the cracked piping voice of a child of seven singing "The Little Farm" were heard in the entryway. The room was filled with noise. The tavern-keeper and the servants were busy with the newcomers. Marmeladov paying no attention to the new arrivals continued his story. He appeared by now to be extremely weak, but as he became more and more drunk, he became more and more talkative. The recollection of his recent success in getting the position seemed to revive him, and was even reflected in a sort of radiance on his face. Raskolnikov listened attentively. "That was five weeks ago, sir. Yes . . . As soon as Katerina Ivanovna and Sonechka heard of it, Lord, it was as though I stepped into the kingdom of Heaven. It used to be: you can lie like a beast, nothing but abuse. Now they were walking on tiptoe, hushing the children. ?ÄòSemion Zakharovich is tired from his work at the office, he is resting, shh!' They made me coffee before I went to work and boiled cream for me! They began to get real cream for me, do you hear that? And how they managed to scrape together the money for a decent outfit eleven rubles, fifty kopecks, I can't guess. Boots, cotton shirt-fronts most magnificent, a uniform, they got it all up in splendid style, for eleven rubles and a half. The first morning I came back from the office I found Katerina Ivanovna had cooked two courses for dinner soup and salt meat with horse radish which we had never dreamed of until then. She didn't have any dresses . . . none at all, but she got herself up as though she were going on a visit; and not that she had anything to do it with, they could make everything out of nothing: do the hair nicely, put on a clean collar of some sort, cuffs, and there she was, quite a different person, younger and better looking. Sonechka, my little darling, had only helped with money; ?Äòfor the time,' she said, ?Äòit won't do for me to come and see you too often. After dark maybe when no-one can see.' Do you hear, do you hear? I lay down for a nap after dinner and what do you think: though Katerina Ivanovna had quarreled to the last degree with our landlady Amalia Fiodorovna only a week before, she could not resist then asking her in for a cup of coffee. For two hours they were sitting, whispering together. ?ÄòSemion Zakharovich is in the service again, now, and receiving a salary,' says she, ?Äòand he went himself to his excellency and his excellency himself came out to him, made all the others wait and led Semion Zakharovich by the hand before everybody into his study.' Do you hear, do you hear? ?ÄòTo be sure,' says he, ?ÄòSemion Zakharovich, remembering your past services,' says he, ?Äòand in spite of your propensity to that foolish weakness, since you promise now and since moreover we've got on badly without you,' (do you hear, do you hear!) ?Äòand so,' says he, ?ÄòI rely now on your word as a gentleman.' And all that, let me tell you, she has simply made up for herself, and not simply out of thoughtlessness, for the sake of bragging; no, she believes it all herself, she amuses herself with her own imaginings, upon my word she does! And I don't blame her for it, no, I don't blame her! . . . Six days ago when I brought her my first earnings in full twenty-three rubles forty kopecks altogether she called me her little one: little one,' said she, ?Äòmy little one.' And when we were by ourselves, you understand? You would not think me a beauty, you would not think much of me as a husband, would you? . . . Well, she pinched my cheek; ?Äòmy little one,' she says." Marmeladov broke off, tried to smile, but suddenly his chin began to twitch. He controlled himself however. The tavern, the degraded appearance of the man, the five nights in the hay barge, and the jug of alcohol, and yet this poignant love for his wife and children bewildered his listener. Raskolnikov listened intently but with a sick sensation. He felt vexed that he had come here. "Dear sir, dear sir," exclaimed Marmeladov recovering himself "Oh, sir, perhaps all this seems a laughing matter to you, as it does to others, and perhaps I am only worrying you with the stupidity of all these miserable details of my home life, but it is not a laughing matter to me. For I can feel it all . . . And the whole of that heavenly day of my life and the whole of that evening I passed in fleeting dreams of how I would arrange it all, and how I would dress all the children, and how I would give her rest, and how I would rescue my own daughter from dishonor and restore her to the bosom of her family ... And a great deal more . . . Quite excusable, sir. Well, then, sir" (Marmeladov suddenly gave a sort of start, raised his head and stared fixedly at his listener) "well, on the very next day after all those dreams, that is to say, exactly five days ago, in the evening, by a cunning trick, like a thief in the night, I stole from Katerina Ivanovna the key of her trunk, took out what was left of my earnings, how much it was I have forgotten, and now look at me, all of you! It the fifth day since I left home, and they are looking for me there and it the end of my employment, and my uniform is lying in a tavern on the Egyptian bridge, exchanged for the garments I have on . . . and it the end of everything!" Marmeladov struck his forehead with his fist, clenched his teeth, closed his eyes and leaned heavily with his elbow on the table. But a minute later his face suddenly changed and with a certain assumed slyness and affectation of bravado, he glanced at Raskolnikov, laughed and said: "This morning I went to see Sonia, I went to ask her for a hangover drink! He-he-he!" "You don't say she gave it to you?" cried one of the newcomers; he shouted the words and went off into a guffaw. "This very quart was bought with her money," Marmeladov declared, addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov. "Thirty kopecks she gave me with her own hands, her last, all she had, as I saw . . . She said nothing, she only looked at me without a word . . . Not on earth, but up there . . . they grieve so over men, they weep, but they don't blame them, they don't blame them! But it hurts more, it hurts more when they don't blame! Thirty kopecks, yes! And maybe she needs them now, eh? What do you think, my dear sir? For now she got to keep up a clean appearance. It costs money, that clean style, a special one, you know? Do you understand? And there rouge, too, you see, she must have things; petticoats, starched ones, shoes, too, real jaunty ones to show off her foot when she has to step over a puddle. Do you understand, sir, do you understand what all that cleanliness means? And here I, her own father, here I took thirty kopecks of that money for a drink! And I am drinking it! And I have already drunk it! Come, who will have pity on a man like me, eh? Do you pity me, sir, or not? Tell me, sir, do you pity me or not? He-he-he!" He would have filled his glass, but there was no drink left. The jug was empty. "What are you to be pitied for?" shouted the tavern-keeper who was again near them. Shouts of laughter and even swearing followed. The laughter and the swearing came from those who were listening and also from those who had heard nothing but were simply looking at the figure of the discharged government clerk. "To be pitied! Why am I to be pitied?" Marmeladov suddenly cried out, standing up with his arm outstretched, positively inspired, as though he had been only waiting for that question. "Why am I to be pitied, you say? Yes! There nothing to pity me for! I ought to be crucified, crucified on a cross, not pitied! Crucify, oh judge, crucify, but when you have crucified, take pity on him! And then I myself will go to be crucified, for it not merry-making I seek but tears and tribulation! . . . Do you suppose, you that sell, that this half-bottle of yours has been sweet to me? It was tribulation I sought at the bottom of it, tears and tribulation, and have tasted it, and have found it; but He will pity us Who has had pity on all men, Who has understood all men and all things, He is the One. He too is the judge. He will come in that day and He will ask: ?ÄòWhere is the daughter who gave herself for her mean, consumptive step-mother and for the little children of another? Where is the daughter who had pity upon the filthy drunkard, her earthly father, undismayed by his beastliness? ' And He will say, ?ÄòCome to me! I have already forgiven thee once . . . I have forgiven thee once . . . Thy sins which are many are forgiven thee for thou hast loved much . . . ' And he will forgive my Sonia, He will forgive, I know it . . . I felt it in my heart when I was with her just now! And He will judge and will forgive all, the good and the evil, the wise and the meek . . . And when He has done with all of them, then He will summon us. ?ÄòYou too come forth,' He will say, ?ÄòCome forth ye drunkards, come forth, ye weak ones, come forth, ye children of shame!' And we shall all come forth, without shame and shall stand before him. And He will say unto us, ?ÄòYe are swine, made in the Image of the Beast and with his mark; but come ye also!' And the wise ones and those of understanding will say, ?ÄòOh Lord, why dost Thou receive these men?' And He will say, ?ÄòThis is why I receive them, oh ye wise, this is why I receive them, oh ye of understanding, that not one of them believed himself to be worthy of this.' And He will hold out His hands to us and we shall fall down before him . . . and we shall weep . . . and we shall understand all things! Then we shall understand everything! . . . and all will understand, Katerina Ivanovna even . . . she will understand . . . Lord, Thy kingdom come!" And he sank down on the bench exhausted and weak, looking at no-one, apparently oblivious of his surroundings and plunged in deep thought. His words had created a certain impression; there was a moment of silence; but soon laughter and swearing were heard again. "Reasoned it all out!" "Talked himself silly!" "A fine clerk he is!" And so on, and so on. "Let us go, sir," said Marmeladov suddenly, raising his head and addressing Raskolnikov "come along with me . . . Kozel house, looking into the yard. I'm going to Katerina Ivanovna time I did." Raskolnikov had for some time been wanting to leave, and he himself had meant to help him. Marmeladov was much weaker on his legs than in his speech and leaned heavily on the young man. They had two or three hundred paces to go. The drunken man was more and more overcome by dismay and confusion as they drew nearer the house. "It not Katerina Ivanovna I am afraid of now," he muttered in agitation "and that she will begin pulling my hair. What does my hair matter! Forget my hair! That what I say! It will even be better if she does begin pulling it, that not what I am afraid of . . . it her eyes I am afraid of . . . yes, her eyes . . . the red on her cheeks, too, frightens me . . . and her breathing too . . . Have you noticed how people with that disease breathe . . . when they are excited? I am afraid of the children crying, too . . . Because if Sonia has not taken them food . . . I don't know then! I don't know! But blows I am not afraid of . . . Know, sir, that such blows are not a pain to me, but even an enjoyment. For I myself can't manage without it . . . It better that way. Let her strike me, it relieves her heart . . . it better that way . . . There is the house. The house of Kozel, the cabinet maker . . . a German, well-off. Lead the way!" They went in from the yard and up to the fourth floor. The staircase got darker and darker as they went up. It was nearly eleven o'clock and although in summer in Petersburg there is no real night, yet it was quite dark at the top of the stairs. A grimy little door at the very top of the stairs stood ajar. A very poor-looking room about ten paces long was lit up by a candle-end; the whole of it was visible from the entrance. It was all in disorder, littered up with rags of all sorts, especially children clothes. Across the furthest corner was stretched a sheet with holes in it. Behind it probably was the bed. There was nothing in the room except two chairs and a very shabby sofa covered with oilcloth, before which stood an old pine kitchen-table, unpainted and uncovered. At the edge of the table stood a smoldering tallow-candle in an iron candlestick. It appeared that the family had a room to themselves, not a corner, but their room was practically a passage. The door leading to the other rooms, or rather cupboards, into which Amalia Lippewechsel apartment was divided, stood half open, and there was shouting, uproar and laughter within. People seemed to be playing cards and drinking tea there. Words of the most unceremonious kind flew out from time to time. Raskolnikov recognized Katerina Ivanovna at once. She was terribly emaciated, a rather tall, slim and graceful woman, with magnificent dark blond hair and indeed with a hectic flush in her cheeks. She was pacing up and down in her little room, pressing her hands against her chest; her lips were parched and her breathing came in irregular broken gasps. Her eyes glittered as in fever but looked about with a harsh immovable stare. And that consumptive and excited face with the last flickering light of the candle-end playing upon it made a sickening impression. She seemed to Raskolnikov about thirty years old and was certainly a strange wife for Marmeladov . . . She had not heard them and did not notice them coming in. She seemed to be lost in thought, hearing and seeing nothing. The room was stuffy, but she had not opened the window; a stench rose from the staircase, but the door on to the stairs was not closed. From the inner rooms clouds of tobacco smoke floated in, she kept coughing, but did not close the door. The youngest child, a girl of six, was asleep, sitting curled up on the floor with her head against the sofa. A boy a year older stood crying and shaking in the corner. Probably he had just had a beating. Beside him stood a girl of nine years old, tall and thin as a matchstick, wearing a worn and ragged shirt with an ancient wool wrap flung over her bare shoulders, long outgrown and barely reaching her knees. She stood in the corner next to her little brother, her long arm, as dry as a matchstick, round her brother neck. She seemed to be trying to comfort him, whispering something to him, and doing all she could to keep him from whimpering again while at the same time her large dark eyes, which looked larger still from the thinness of her frightened face, were watching her mother with fear. Marmeladov did not enter the door, but dropped on his knees in the very doorway, pushing Raskolnikov in front of him. The woman seeing a stranger stopped absentmindedly facing him, coming to herself for a moment and apparently wondering what he had come for. But evidently she decided that he was going into the next room, since he had to pass through hers to get there. Having figured this out and taking no further notice of him, she walked towards the outer door to close it and uttered a sudden scream on seeing her husband on his knees in the doorway. "Ah!" she cried out in a frenzy, "he has come back! The criminal! the monster! . . . And where is the money? What in your pocket, show me! And your clothes are all different! Where are your clothes? Where is the money! speak!" And she rushed to search him. Marmeladov submissively and obediently held up both arms to facilitate the search. Not a kopeck was there. "Where the money?" she cried "Oh Lord, can he have drunk it all? But there were twelve silver rubles left in the chest!" and suddenly, in a fury, she seized him by the hair and dragged him into the room. Marmeladov helped her efforts by meekly crawling along on his knees. "And this is enjoyment to me! This does not hurt me, but is actually enjoyment, dear sir," he called out, shaken to and fro by his hair and even once striking the ground with his forehead. The child asleep on the floor woke up, and began to cry. The boy in the corner losing all control began trembling and screaming and rushed to his sister in violent terror, almost in a fit. The eldest girl was shaking like a leaf. "He drunk it! He drunk it all," the poor woman screamed in despair "and his clothes are gone! And they are hungry, hungry!" and wringing her hands she pointed to the children. "Oh, accursed life! And you, are you not ashamed?" she pounced suddenly upon Raskolnikov "from the tavern! Have you been drinking with him? You have been drinking with him, too! Get out!" The young man hastened to leave without uttering a word. The inner door, moreover, was thrown wide open and inquisitive faces were peering in. Shameless laughing faces with pipes and cigarettes and heads wearing caps thrust themselves in at the doorway. Further in figures in dressing gowns flung open could be seen, in costumes of unseemly scantiness, some of them with cards in their hands. They were particularly diverted when Marmeladov, dragged about by his hair, shouted that it was enjoyment to him. They even began to come into the room; at last a sinister shrill outcry was heard: this came from Amalia Lippewechsel herself pushing her way forward and trying to restore order in her own way and for the hundredth time to frighten the poor woman by ordering her with coarse abuse to clear out of the room next day. As he went out, Raskolnikov had time to put his hand into his pocket, to snatch up the coppers he had received in exchange for his ruble in the tavern and to lay them unnoticed on the window. Afterwards on the stairs, he changed his mind and wanted to go back. "What a stupid thing I've done," he thought to himself, "they have Sonia and I need it myself." But reflecting that it would be impossible to take it back now and that in any case he would not have taken it, he dismissed it with a wave of his hand and went back to his room. "Sonia wants rouge too," he said as he walked along the street, and he laughed malignantly "such cleanliness costs money . . . Hm! And maybe our Sonia herself will be bankrupt today, for there is always a risk, hunting big game . . . digging for gold . . . then they would all be without a crust tomorrow except for my money. Bravo Sonia! What a well they've dug! And they're making the most of it! Yes, they are making the most of it! Got used to it. They've wept a bit and grown used to it. Man grows used to everything, the scoundrel!" He sank into thought. "And what if I am wrong," he suddenly cried involuntarily. "What if man is not really a scoundrel, man in general, I mean, the whole race of mankind then all the rest is prejudice, simply artificial terrors and there are no barriers and it all as it should be." CHAPTER THREE HE WOKE UP LATE next day after a troubled sleep. But his sleep had not refreshed him; he woke up bilious, irritable, ill-tempered, and looked with hatred at his room. It was a tiny cupboard of a room about six paces in length. It had a poverty-stricken appearance with its dusty yellow paper peeling off the walls, and the ceiling was so low that a man of just a little more than average height was ill at ease in it and kept feeling every moment that he would knock his head against the ceiling. The furniture was in keeping with the room: there were three old chairs, rather rickety; a painted table in the corner on which lay a few books and notebooks; the dust alone that lay thick upon them showed that they had been long untouched. A big clumsy sofa occupied almost the whole of one wall and half the floor space of the room; it was once covered with chintz, but was now in rags and served Raskolnikov as a bed. Often he went to sleep on it, as he was, without undressing, without sheets, wrapped in his old, shabby student overcoat, with his head on one little pillow, under which he heaped up all the linen he had, clean and dirty, by way of a bolster. A little table stood in front of the sofa. It would have been difficult to sink to a lower ebb of slovenliness, but to Raskolnikov in his present state of mind this was even agreeable. He had completely withdrawn from everyone, like a tortoise in its shell, and even the sight of the servant girl who had to wait upon him and looked sometimes into his room made him writhe with nervous irritation. He was in the condition that overtakes some monomaniacs excessively concentrated upon one thing. His landlady had for the last fortnight given up sending him in meals, and he had still not yet thought of expostulating with her, though he went without his dinner. Nastasia, the cook and only servant, was rather pleased at the tenant mood and had entirely given up sweeping and doing his room, only once a week or so she would stray into his room with a broom. She woke him up now. "Get up, why are you asleep!" she called to him. "It past nine, I've brought you some tea; want a cup? You must be starving?" The tenant opened his eyes, started and recognized Nastasia. "From the landlady, eh?" he asked, slowly and with a sickly face sitting up on the sofa. "From the landlady, indeed!" She set before him her own cracked teapot full of weak and stale tea and laid two yellow lumps of sugar by the side of it. "Here, Nastasia, take it please," he said, fumbling in his pocket (for he had slept in his clothes) and taking out a handful of coppers "run and buy me a loaf. And get me a little sausage, the cheapest, at the pork-butcher ." "The loaf I'll fetch you this very minute, but don't you want some cabbage soup instead of sausage? It great soup, yesterday . I saved it for you yesterday, but you came in late. It fine soup." When the soup had been brought, and he had started on it, Nastasia sat down beside him on the sofa and began chatting. She was a country peasant-woman and a very talkative one. "Praskovia Pavlovna wants to complain to the police about you," she said. He winced. "To the police? What does she want?" "You don't pay her money and you won't move out of the room. It clear what she wants." "The devil, that the last straw," he muttered, grinding his teeth, "no, that would not suit me . . . just now. She is a fool," he added aloud. "I'll go and talk to her today." "Fool she is and no mistake, just as I am. But why, if you are so clever, do you lie here like a sack and have nothing to show for it? One time you used to go out, you say, to teach children. But why is it you do nothing now?" "I am doing . . . " Raskolnikov began sullenly and reluctantly. "What are you doing?" "Work . . . " "What sort of work?" "I am thinking," he answered seriously after a pause. Nastasia burst out laughing. She was given to laughter and when anything amused her, she laughed inaudibly, quivering and shaking all over until she felt ill. "And have you made much money by your thinking?" she managed to articulate at last. "One can't go out to give lessons without boots. And who cares." "Don't spit in a well." "They pay so little for lessons. What the use of a few coppers?" he answered, reluctantly, as though replying to his own thought. "And you want to get a fortune all at once?" He looked at her strangely. "Yes, I want a fortune," he answered firmly, after a brief pause. "Easy, easy, or you'll frighten me! Am I getting you the loaf or not?" "As you like." "Ah, I forgot! A letter came for you yesterday when you were out." "A letter? For me! From whom?" "I don't know. But I gave three kopecks of my own to the post-man for it. Will you pay me back?" "Then bring it to me, for God sake, bring it," cried Raskolnikov greatly excited "good God!" A minute later the letter was brought him. Just as he thought: from his mother, from the province of R____.7 He even turned pale when he took it. It was a long while since he had received a letter, but another feeling also suddenly stabbed his heart. "Nastasia, leave me alone, for goodness' sake; here are your three kopecks, but for goodness' sake, make haste and go!" The letter was quivering in his hand; he did not want to open it in her presence; he wanted to be left alone with this letter. When Nastasia had gone out, he lifted it quickly to his lips and kissed it; then he gazed intently at the address, the small, sloping handwriting, so dear and familiar, of the mother who had once taught him to read and write. He delayed; he even seemed almost afraid of something. At last he opened it; it was a thick heavy letter, weighing over two ounces, two large sheets of note paper were covered with very small handwriting. "My dear Rodia," wrote his mother "it over two months since I last had a talk with you by letter which has distressed me and even kept me awake at night, thinking. But I am sure you will not blame me for my involuntary silence.You know how I love you; you are all we have to look to, Dunia and I, you are our all, our one hope, our one mainstay.What a grief it was to me when I heard that you had given up the university some months ago, for want of means to support yourself and that you had lost your lessons and your other work! How could I help you out of my hundred and twenty rubles a year pension? The fifteen rubles I sent you four months ago I borrowed, as you know, on security of my pension, from Vassily Ivanovich Vakhrushin, our local merchant. He is a kind-hearted man and was a friend of your father too. But having given him the right to receive the pension, I had to wait till the debt was paid off and that is only just done, so that I've been unable to send you anything all this time. But now, thank God, I believe I will be able to send you something more and in fact we may congratulate ourselves on our good fortune now, of which I hasten to inform you. In the first place, would you have guessed, dear Rodia, that your sister has been living with me for the last six weeks and we will not be separated again in the future.Thank God, her sufferings are over, but I will tell you everything in order, so that you may know just how everything has happened and all that we have until now concealed from you.When you wrote to me two months ago that you had heard that Dunia had a great deal of rudeness to put up with in the Svidrigailovs' house, when you wrote that and asked me to tell you all the particulars what could I write in answer to you? If I had written the whole truth to you, I dare say you would have dropped everything and have come to us, even if you had to walk all the way, for I know your character and your feelings, and you would not let your sister be insulted. I was in despair myself, but what could I do? And, besides, I did not know the whole truth myself then.What made it all so difficult was that Dunia received a hundred rubles in advance when she took the place as governess in their family, on condition of part of her salary being deducted every month, and so it was impossible to quit the position without repaying the debt.This sum (now I can explain it all to you, my dearest Rodia) she took chiefly in order to send you sixty rubles, which you needed so badly then and which you received from us last year.We deceived you then, writing that this money came from Dunechka savings, but that was not so, and now I tell you all about it, because, thank God, things have suddenly changed for the better, and that you may know how Dunia loves you and what a priceless heart she has. At first indeed Mr. Svidrigailov treated her very rudely and used to make disrespectful and jeering remarks at table . . . But I don't want to go into all those painful details, so as not to worry you for nothing when it is now all over. In short, in spite of the kind and generous behavior of Marfa Petrovna, Mr. Svidrigailov wife, and all the rest of the household, Dunechka had a very hard time, especially when Mr. Svidrigailov, relapsing into his old regimental habits, was under the influence of alcohol. And how do you think it was all explained later on? Would you believe that the madman had conceived a passion for Dunia from the beginning, but had concealed it under a show of rudeness and contempt. Possibly he was ashamed and horrified himself at his own flighty hopes, considering his years and his being the father of a family; and that made him angry with Dunia. And possibly, too, he simply hoped by his rude and sneering behavior to hide the truth from others. But at last he lost all control and dared to make Dunia an open and vile proposal, promising her all sorts of inducements and offering, besides, to drop everything and take her to another estate of his, or even abroad.You can imagine all she suffered! To leave her situation at once was impossible not only on account of the money debt, but also to spare the feelings of Marfa Petrovna, whose suspicions would have been aroused; and then Dunia would have been the cause of a discord in the family. And it would have meant a terrible scandal for Dunechka too; that would have been inevitable. There were various other reasons owing to which Dunia could not hope to escape from that awful house for another six weeks.You know Dunia, of course; you know how clever she is and what a strong will she has. Dunechka can endure a great deal and even in the most difficult cases her generous spirit helps her to retain her firmness. She did not even write to me about everything for fear of upsetting me, although we were constantly in communication. It all ended very unexpectedly. Marfa Petrovna accidentally overheard her husband imploring Dunia in the garden, and, putting quite a wrong interpretation on the situation, threw the blame upon her, believing her to be the cause of it all. An awful scene took place between them on the spot in the garden; Marfa Petrovna went so far as to strike Dunia, refused to hear anything and was shouting at her for a whole hour and then gave orders that Dunia should be packed off at once to me in a plain peasant cart, into which they flung all her things, her linen and her clothes, all pell-mell, without folding it up and packing it. And a heavy shower of rain came on, too, and Dunia, insulted and put to shame, had to drive with a peasant in an open cart all the seventeen versts into town. Only think now what answer could I have sent to the letter I received from you two months ago and what could I have written? I was in despair; I dared not write to you the truth because you would have been very unhappy, chagrined and indignant, and yet what could you do? You could only perhaps ruin yourself, and, besides, Dunechka would not allow it; and I could not fill up my letter with trifles when my heart was so full of sorrow. For a whole month the town was full of gossip about this scandal, and it came to the point that Dunia and I dared not even go to church on account of the contemptuous looks, whispers, and even remarks made aloud about us. All our acquaintances avoided us, nobody even bowed to us in the street, and I learnt that some store assistants and clerks were intending to insult us in a shameful way, smearing the gates of our house with tar, so that the landlord began to tell us we must leave.The cause of all this was Marfa Petrovna, who managed to slander Dunia and throw dirt at her in every family. She knows everyone in the neighborhood, and that month she was continually coming into the town, and as she is rather talkative and fond of gossiping about her family affairs and particularly of complaining to all and each of her husband which is not at all right so in a short time she had spread her story not only in the town, but over the whole surrounding district. It made me ill, but Dunechka was firmer than I was, and if only you could have seen how she endured it all and tried to comfort me and cheer me up! She is an angel! But by God mercy, our sufferings were cut short: Mr. Svidrigailov returned to his senses and repented and, probably feeling sorry for Dunia, he laid before Marfa Petrovna a complete and unmistakable proof of Dunechka innocence, in the form of a letter Dunia had been forced to write and give to him, before Marfa Petrovna found them in the garden.This letter, which remained in Mr. Svidrigailov hands after her departure, she had written to refuse personal explanations and secret meetings, on which he was insisting. In that letter she reproached him with great heat and indignation for the baseness of his behavior in regard to Marfa Petrovna, reminding him that he was the father and head of a family and telling him how vile it was of him to torment and make unhappy a defenseless girl, unhappy enough already. Indeed, dear Rodia, the letter was so nobly and touchingly written that I sobbed when I read it and to this day I cannot read it without tears. Moreover, the evidence of the servants, too, cleared Dunia reputation; they had seen and known a great deal more than Mr. Svidrigailov had himself supposed as indeed is always the case with servants. Marfa Petrovna was completely taken aback, and ?Äòagain crushed' as she said herself to us, but she was completely convinced of Dunechka innocence.The very next day, being Sunday, she went straight to the Cathedral, knelt down and prayed with tears to Our Lady to give her strength to bear this new trial and to do her duty.Then she came straight from the Cathedral to us, told us the whole story, wept bitterly and, fully penitent, she embraced Dunia and besought her to forgive her.The same morning without any delay, she went round to all the houses in the town and everywhere, shedding tears, she asserted in the most flattering terms Dunechka innocence and the nobility of her feelings and her behavior.What was more, she showed and read to every one the letter in Dunechka own handwriting to Mr. Svidrigailov and even allowed them to take copies of it which I must say I think was superfluous. In this way she was busy for several days in a row in driving about the whole town, since some people had taken offence that precedence has been given to others, and thus they had to take turns, so that in every house she was expected before she arrived, and everyone knew that on such and such a day Marfa Petrovna would be reading the letter in such and such a place and people assembled for every reading of it, even those who had heard it several times already both in their own houses and in other people , taking turns. In my opinion a great deal, a very great deal of all this was unnecessary; but that Marfa Petrovna character. Anyway she succeeded in completely re-establishing Dunechka reputation and the whole vileness of this affair rested as an indelible disgrace upon her husband, as the first person to blame, so that I really began to feel sorry for him; it was really treating the madcap too harshly. Dunia was at once asked to give lessons in several families, but she refused. In general everyone suddenly began to treat her with marked respect. All this did much to bring about that unexpected event by which, one may say, all our fate is now transformed.You must know, dear Rodia, that Dunia has a suitor and that she has already consented to marry him, of which I hasten to tell you as soon as possible. And though the matter has been arranged without asking your consent, I think you will not be aggrieved with me or with your sister on that account, for you will see that it would have been impossible for us to wait and put off our decision till we heard from you. And you could not have judged all the facts without being on the spot.This was how it happened. He is already of the rank of a court councilor, Peter Petrovich Luzhin, and is distantly related to Marfa Petrovna, who has been very active in bringing the match about. He began by expressing through her his desire to make our acquaintance, was properly received, drank coffee with us and the very next day he sent us a letter in which he very courteously explained his offer and begged for a speedy and decided answer. He is a very busy man and is in a great hurry to get to Petersburg, so that every moment is precious to him. At first, of course, we were greatly surprised, as it had all happened so quickly and unexpectedly.We thought and deliberated the whole day. He is a well-to-do man, to be depended upon, he has two posts in the government and has already made his fortune. It is true that he is forty-five years old, but he is of a fairly pleasing appearance and might still be thought attractive by women, and he is altogether a very respectable and presentable man, only he seems a little morose and somewhat haughty. But possibly that may only be the impression he makes at first sight. And beware, dear Rodia, when he comes to Petersburg, as he shortly will do, beware of judging him too rashly and heatedly, as your way is, if there is anything you do not like in him at first sight. I say this just in case, although I feel sure that he will make a favorable impression upon you. Moreover, in order to understand any man one must approach gradually and carefully to avoid forming prejudices and mistaken ideas, which are very difficult to correct and remedy afterwards. And Peter Petrovich, judging by many indications, is a thoroughly estimable man. At his first visit, indeed, he told us that he was a practical man, but still he shares, as he expressed it, many of ?Äòthe convictions of our most rising generation' and he is an opponent of all prejudices. He said a good deal more, for he seems a little conceited and likes to be listened to, but this is scarcely a vice. I, of course, understood very little of it, but Dunia explained to me that, though he is not a man of great education, he is clever and, it seems, kind.You know your sister character, Rodia. She is a resolute, sensible, patient and generous girl, but she has an ardent heart, as I know very well. Of course, there is no great love either on his side or on hers, but Dunia, while a clever girl, is also a noble creature, like an angel, and will make it her duty to make her husband happy who on his side will make her happiness his care, of which we have no good reason to doubt, though it must be admitted the matter has been arranged in great haste. Besides he is a man of great prudence and he will see, to be sure, for himself that his own happiness will be the more secure, the happier Dunechka is with him. And as for some defects of character, for some habits and even certain differences of opinion which indeed are inevitable even in the happiest marriages Dunechka has said that, as regards all that, she relies on herself, that there is nothing to be uneasy about, and that she is ready to put up with a great deal, if only their future relationship can be an honest and honorable one. He struck me too, for instance, at first, as rather abrupt, but that may well come from his being an outspoken man, and that is no doubt how it is. For instance, at his second visit, after he had received Dunia consent, in the course of conversation, he declared that before making Dunia acquaintance, he had made up his mind to marry a girl of good reputation, but without dowry and, above all, one who had experienced poverty, because, as he explained, a man ought not to be indebted to his wife, but that it is better for a wife to look upon her husband as her benefactor. I must add that he expressed it more nicely and politely than I have done, for I have forgotten his actual phrases and only remember the meaning. And, besides, it was obviously not said of design, but slipped out in the heat of conversation, so that he tried afterwards to correct himself and smooth it over, but all the same it did strike me as somewhat rude, and I said so afterwards to Dunia. But Dunia was vexed, and answered that ?Äòwords are not deeds,' and that, of course, is perfectly true. Dunechka did not sleep all night before she made up her mind, and, thinking that I was asleep, she got out of bed and was walking up and down the room all night; at last she knelt down before the icon and prayed long and fervently and in the morning she told me that she had decided. "I have mentioned already that Peter Petrovich is just setting off for Petersburg, where he has a great deal of business, and he wants to open a legal bureau in Petersburg. He has been occupied for many years in conducting various lawsuits and cases, and only the other day he won an important case. He has to be in Petersburg because he has an important case before the Senate. So, Rodia dear, he may be of the greatest use to you, in every way indeed, and Dunia and I have already agreed that from this very day you could definitely enter upon your career and might consider that your future is marked out and assured for you. Oh, if only this comes to pass! This would be such a benefit that we could only look upon it as a providential blessing. Dunia is dreaming of nothing else.We have even ventured already to drop a few words on the subject to Peter Petrovich. He was cautious in his answer, and said that, of course, as he could not get on without a secretary, it would be better to be paying a salary to a relation than to a stranger, if only the former were fit for the duties (as though there could be doubt of your being fit!) but then he expressed doubts whether your studies at the university would leave you time for work at his office.The matter was dropped for the time, but Dunia is thinking of nothing else now. She has been in a sort of fever for the last few days, and has already made a whole plan for your becoming in the future an associate and even a partner in Peter Petrovich law business, which might well be, seeing that you yourself are a student of law. I am in complete agreement with her, Rodia, and share all her plans and hopes, and think there is every probability of realizing them. And in spite of Peter Petrovich evasiveness, very natural at present (since he does not know you), Dunia is firmly persuaded that she will gain everything by her good influence over her future husband; this she is sure of. Of course we are careful not to talk of any of these more distant dreams to Peter Petrovich, especially of your becoming his partner. He is a practical man and might take this very coldly, it might all seem to him simply a day dream. Nor has either Dunia or I breathed a word to him of the great hopes we have of his helping us to assist you with money while you are at the university; we have not spoken of it in the first place because it will come to pass of itself, later on, and he himself will no doubt without wasting words offer to do it (as though he could refuse Dunechka that), the more readily since you may by your own efforts become his right hand in the office, and receive this assistance not as a charity, but as a salary earned by your own work. Dunechka wants to arrange it all like this and I quite agree with her. And we have not spoken of our plans for another reason, that is, because I particularly wanted you to feel on an equal footing when you first meet him.When Dunia spoke to him with enthusiasm about you, he answered that one could never judge of a man without seeing him up close, for oneself, and that he would leave it to himself to form his own opinion when he makes your acquaintance. Do you know, my dearest Rodia, I think that perhaps for some reasons (nothing to do with Peter Petrovich though, simply for my own personal, perhaps even old-womanish, whims) I will do better to go on living by myself after the wedding, apart, than with them. I am convinced that he will be generous and delicate enough to invite me and to urge me not to part with my daughter for the future, and if he has said nothing about it until now, it is simply because it has been taken for granted; but I shall refuse. I have noticed more than once in my life that mothers-in-law aren't quite to husbands' liking, and I don't want to be the least bit in anyone way, and for my own sake, too, would rather be quite independent, so long as I have a crust of bread of my own, and such children as you and Dunechka. If possible, I would settle somewhere near you both, for the most joyful piece of news, dear Rodia, I have kept for the end of my letter: know then, my dear boy, that we may, perhaps, be all together in a very short time and may embrace one another again after a separation of almost three years! It is settled for certain that Dunia and I are to set off for Petersburg, exactly when I don't know, but in any case very, very soon, even possibly in a week. It all depends on Peter Petrovich who will let us know when he has had time to look round him in Petersburg.To suit his own arrangements he is anxious to have the ceremony as soon as possible, even before the fast of Our Lady, if it could be managed, or if that is too soon to be ready, immediately after. Oh, with what happiness I shall press you to my heart! Dunia is all excitement at the joyful thought of seeing you, she said one day in jest that she would be ready to marry Peter Petrovich for that alone. She is an angel! She is not writing anything to you now, and has only told me to write that she has so much, so much to tell you that she is not going to take up her pen now, for a few lines would tell you nothing, and it would only mean upsetting herself; she bids me to send you her love and innumerable kisses. But although we will perhaps be meeting so soon, I will all the same send you as much money as I can in a day or two. Now that everyone has heard that Dunechka is to marry Peter Petrovich, my credit has suddenly improved and I know that Afanasy Ivanovich will trust me now even to seventy-five rubles on the security of my pension, so that perhaps I will be able to send you twenty-five or even thirty rubles. I would send you more, but I am uneasy about our traveling expenses; for though Peter Petrovich has been so kind as to undertake part of the expenses of the journey, that is to say, he has taken upon himself the delivery of our bags and big trunk (through some acquaintances of his, somehow), we must take into account some expenses on our arrival in Petersburg, where we can't be left without any money, at least for the first few days. But we have calculated it all, Dunechka and I, to the last kopeck, and we see that the journey will not cost very much. It is only ninety versts from us to the railway and we have already come to an agreement with a driver we know; and from there Dunechka and I can travel quite comfortably third class. So that I may very likely be able to send to you not twenty-five, but thirty rubles. But enough; I have covered two sheets already and there is no space left for more; our whole history, but so many events have happened! And now, my dearest Rodia, I embrace you and send you a mother blessing till we meet. Love Dunia your sister, Rodia; love her as she loves you and understand that she loves you beyond everything, more than herself. She is an angel and you, Rodia, you are everything to us our one hope, our one consolation. If only you are happy, we shall be happy. Do you still say your prayers, Rodia, and believe in the mercy of our Creator and our Redeemer? I am afraid in my heart that you may have been visited by the new fashionable spirit of unbelief. If it is so, I pray for you. Remember, dear boy, how in your childhood, when your father was living, you used to lisp your prayers at my knee, and how happy we all were in those days. Goodbye, or rather, till we meet I embrace you warmly, warmly, with countless kisses. "Yours till death, "PULCHERIA RASKOLNIKOV." Almost from the first, while he read the letter, Raskolnikov face was wet with tears; but when he finished it, his face was pale and distorted and a bitter, wrathful and malignant smile was on his lips. He laid his head down on his threadbare dirty pillow and pondered, pondered a long time. His heart was beating violently, and his thoughts were in a turmoil. At last he felt cramped and stifled in the little yellow room that was like a cupboard or a box. His eyes and his mind craved for space. He took up his hat and went out, this time without dread of meeting anyone; he had forgotten all about that. He turned in the direction of the Vassilyevsky Island, walking along V. Prospect,8 as though hastening on some business, but he walked, as his habit was, without noticing his way, whispering and even speaking aloud to himself, to the astonishment of the passersby. Many of them took him to be drunk. CHAPTER FOUR HIS MOTHER LETTER HAD been a torture to him. But as regards the chief, the fundamental fact in it, he had felt not one moment hesitation, even while he was reading the letter. The essential question was settled, and irrevocably settled, in his mind: "Never such a marriage while I am alive, and Mr. Luzhin be damned!" "The thing is perfectly clear," he muttered to himself, with a malignant smile anticipating the triumph of his decision. "No, Mother, no, Dunia, you won't deceive me! And then they apologize for not asking my advice and for making the decision without me! I dare say! They imagine it is arranged now and can't be broken off; but we will see whether it can or not! A magnificent excuse: ?ÄòPeter Petrovich is such a busy man, such a busy man that even his wedding has to be rushed, almost express. ' No, Dunechka, I see it all and I know what that much is that you want to say to me; and I know too what you were thinking about, when you walked up and down all night, and what your prayers were like before the Holy Mother of Kazan who stands in mother bedroom. Bitter is the ascent to Golgotha9 . . . Hm . . . So it is finally settled; you have determined to marry a rational business man, Avdotia Romanovna, one who has a fortune (has already made his fortune, that is so much more solid and impressive), a man who holds two government posts and who shares the ideas of our most rising generation, as mother writes, and who ?Äòseems to be kind,' as Dunechka herself observes. That seems beats everything! And that very Dunechka is marrying that very ?Äòseems'! Splendid! splendid! " . . . But I wonder why mother has written to me about ?Äòour most rising generation'? Simply as a descriptive touch, or with the idea of predisposing me in favor of Mr. Luzhin? Oh, the cunning of them! I wonder about one other item: how far were they open with one another that day and night and all this time since? Was it all put into words, or did both understand that they had the same thing at heart and in their minds, so that there was no need to speak of it aloud, and better not to speak of it. Most likely it was partly like that, from mother letter it evident: he struck her as rude, just a little, and mother in her simplicity took her observations to Dunia. And she was sure to be vexed and ?Äòanswered her angrily.' I should think so! Who would not be furious when it was quite clear without any naive questions and when it was understood that it was useless to discuss it. And why does she write to me, ?Äòlove Dunia, Rodia, and she loves you more than herself'? Has she a secret conscience-prick at sacrificing her daughter to her son? ?ÄòYou are our one comfort, you are everything to us.' Oh, Mother!" His bitterness grew more and more intense, and if he had happened to meet Mr. Luzhin at the moment, he might have murdered him. "Hm . . . yes, that true," he continued, pursuing the whirling ideas that chased each other in his brain, "it is true that ?Äòto get to know a man, one must approach gradually and carefully,' but there is no mistake about Mr. Luzhin. The chief thing is he is ?Äòa man of business and seems kind,' that was something, wasn't it, to send the bags and big box for them at his own expense! A kind man, no doubt after that! But his bride and her mother are to ride in a peasant cart covered with matting (I know, I have been driven in it). No matter! It is only ninety versts and then they can ?Äòtravel very comfortably, third class,' for a thousand versts! Quite sensible, too. One must cut one coat according to one cloth, but what about you, Mr. Luzhin? She is your bride . . . And you couldn't fail to be aware that her mother has to borrow money on her pension for the journey. To be sure it a matter of transacting business together, a partnership for mutual benefit, with equal shares and, therefore, expenses; food and drink in common, but pay for your tobacco, as the proverb goes. But here too the business man has got the better of them. The luggage will cost less than their fares and very likely go for nothing. How is it that they don't both see all that, or is it that they don't want to see? And they are pleased, pleased! And to think that this is only the first blossoming, and that the real fruits are to come! For what really matters is not the stinginess, not the tightfistedness, but the tone of the whole thing. For that will be the tone after marriage, it a foretaste of it. And mother too, why is she spending recklessly? What will she have by the time she gets to Petersburg? Three silver rubles or two ?Äòpaper ones' as she says . . . that old woman . . . hm. What does she expect to live on in Petersburg afterwards? She has her reasons already for guessing that she could not live with Dunia after the marriage, even at first. The good man has no doubt let it slip on that subject also, made himself clear, though mother is waving the notion aside with both hands: ?ÄòI will refuse,' says she. What is she hoping for then? Is she counting on what is left of her hundred and twenty rubles of pension when Afanasy Ivanovich debt is paid? She knits woolen shawls and embroiders cuffs, ruining her old eyes. And all her shawls don't add more than twenty rubles a year to her hundred and twenty, I know that. So she is building all her hopes on Mr. Luzhin generosity; ?Äòhe will offer it himself, he will press it on me.' You'll have a long wait! That how it always is with these Schilleresque10 noble hearts; till the last moment every goose is a swan with them, till the last moment they hope for good and not ill, and although they have an inkling of the other side of the picture, yet they won't face the truth till they are forced to; the very thought of it makes them shiver; they thrust the truth away with both hands, until the man they deck out in false colors puts a fool cap on them with his own hands. I wonder whether Mr. Luzhin has any orders of merit; I bet he has the Anna11 in his buttonhole and that he puts it on when he goes to dine with contractors or merchants. He'll put it on for his wedding, too! Enough of him, devil take him! "Well . . . Mother, I don't wonder at, it like her, God bless her, but how could Dunia? Dunechka, darling, as though I did not know you! You were nearly twenty when I saw you last: I understood you then. Mother writes that ?ÄòDunia can put up with a great deal.' I know that very well. I knew that two years and a half ago, and for the last two and a half years I have been thinking about it, thinking of just that, that ?ÄòDunia can put up with a great deal.' If she could put up with Mr. Svidrigailov and all the rest of it, she certainly can put up with a great deal. And now mother and she have taken it into their heads that she can put up with Mr. Luzhin, who propounds the theory of the superiority of wives raised from destitution and owing everything to their husbands' bounty who propounds it, too, almost at the first interview. Granted that he ?Äòlet it slip,' though he is a rational man (so maybe it was not a slip at all, but he meant to make himself clear as soon as possible), but Dunia, Dunia? She understands the man, of course, but she will have to live with the man. Why! She'd live on black bread and water, she would not sell her soul, she would not barter her moral freedom for comfort; she would not barter it for all Schleswig-Holstein,12 much less Mr. Luzhin money. No, Dunia was not that sort when I knew her and . . . she is still the same, of course! Yes, there no denying, the Svidrigailovs are a bitter pill! It hard to spend one life as a governess in the provinces for two hundred rubles, but I know she would rather be a slave on a plantation or a Latvian with a German master, than degrade her soul, and her moral feeling, by binding herself forever to a man whom she does not respect and with whom she has nothing in common for her own advantage. And if Mr. Luzhin had been made of pure gold, or one huge diamond, she would never have consented to become his legal concubine. Why is she consenting then? What is this? What the answer? It clear enough: for herself, for her comfort, to save her life she would not sell herself, but for someone else she is doing it! For the one she loves, for the one she adores, she will sell herself! That what it all amounts to; for her brother, for her mother, she will sell herself! She will sell everything! In such cases, we squash our moral feeling if necessary, freedom, peace, conscience even, all, all are brought into the street market. goodbye life! If only these our dear ones may be happy. More than that, we become casuists, we learn to be Jesuitical and for a time maybe we can soothe ourselves, we can persuade ourselves that it is, really is one duty for a good cause. That just like us, it as clear as daylight. It clear that Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov is the central figure in the business, and no-one else. Oh, yes, she can ensure his happiness, keep him in the university, make him a partner in the office, make his whole future secure; perhaps he may even be a rich man later on, esteemed, respected, and may even end his life a famous man! But mother? Oh, but it all Rodia, dearest Rodia, her first born! For such a son who would not sacrifice even such a daughter! Oh, loving, over-partial hearts! Why, for his sake we would not shrink even from Sonia fate. Sonechka, Sonechka Marmeladov, the eternal Sonechka so long as the world lasts. Have you taken the measure of your sacrifice, both of you, have you? Is it right? Can you bear it? Is it any use? Is there sense in it? And let me tell you, Dunechka, Sonechka life is no worse than life with Mr. Luzhin. ?ÄòThere can be no question of love,' mother writes. And what if there can be no respect either, if on the contrary there is aversion, contempt, repulsion, what then? Then you will have to ?Äòkeep up your appearance,' too. Is that not so? Do you understand, do you, do you, what that cleanliness means? Do you understand that the Luzhin cleanliness is just the same thing as Sonechka and may be worse, viler, baser, because in your case, Dunechka, it a bargain for luxuries, after all, but there it simply a question of starvation. ?ÄòIt has to be paid for, it has to be paid for, Dunechka, this cleanliness!' And what if it more than you can bear afterwards, if you regret it? The grief, the misery, the curses, the tears hidden from all the world, for you are not a Marfa Petrovna. And how will your mother feel then? Even now she is uneasy, she is worried, but then, when she sees it all clearly? And I? Yes, indeed, what have you taken me for? I won't have your sacrifice, Dunechka, I won't have it, Mother! It will not be, so long as I am alive, it will not, it will not! I won't accept it!" He suddenly recollected himself and paused. "It shall not be? But what are you going to do to prevent it? You'll forbid it? And what right have you? What can you promise them on your side to give you such a right? Your whole life, your whole future, you will devote to them when you have finished your studies and obtained a post? Yes, we have heard all that before, and that all words, but now? Now something must be done, now, do you understand that? And what are you doing now? You are robbing them. They borrow on their hundred rubles pension. They borrow from the Svidrigailovs. How are you going to save them from the Svidrigailovs, from Afanasy Ivanovich Vakhrushin, oh, future millionaire, oh Zeus who would arrange their lives for them? In another ten years? In another ten years, mother will be blind with knitting shawls, maybe with weeping too. She will be worn to a shadow with fasting; and my sister? Imagine for a moment what may become of your sister in ten years? What may happen to her during those ten years? Have you guessed?" So he tortured himself, taunting himself with such questions, and finding a kind of enjoyment in it. And yet all these questions were not new ones suddenly confronting him, they were old familiar aches. It was long since they had first begun to grip and rend his heart. Long, long ago his present anguish had its first beginnings; it had waxed and gathered strength, it had matured and concentrated, until it had taken the form of a horrible, wild and fantastic question, which tortured his heart and mind, clamoring insistently for an answer. Now his mother letter had burst on him like a thunderclap. It was clear that he must not now languish and suffer passively, in thought alone, over questions that appeared insoluble, but that he must do something, do it at once, and do it quickly. He must decide on something no matter what, on anything at all, or . . . "Or renounce life altogether!" he cried suddenly, in a frenzy "accept one lot humbly as it is, once for all and stifle everything in oneself, giving up every right to act, live, and love!" "Do you understand, dear sir, do you understand what it means when there is absolutely nowhere to go?" Marmeladov question of the previous day came suddenly into his mind, "for every man must have somewhere to go . . . " He gave a sudden start; another thought, that he had also had yesterday, flashed through his mind. But he did not start at the thought recurring to him, for he knew, he had felt beforehand, that it must ?Äòflash,' he was expecting it; besides it was not only yesterday thought. The difference was that a month ago, yesterday even, the thought was a mere dream: but now . . . now it appeared not a dream at all, it had taken a new, menacing and completely unfamiliar shape, and he suddenly became aware of this himself . . . He felt a hammering in his head, and eyes were darkened. He looked round hurriedly, he was searching for something. He wanted to sit down and was looking for a bench; he was walking along K_ Boulevard.13 There was a bench about a hundred paces in front of him. He walked towards it as fast he could; but on the way he met with a little adventure which for several minutes absorbed all his attention. Looking for the seat, he had noticed a woman walking some twenty paces in front of him, but at first he took no more notice of her than of other objects that crossed his path. It had happened to him many times already, on the way home, for example, not to notice the road by which he was going, and he was accustomed to walk like that. But there was something so strange about the woman in front of him, so striking even at first sight, that gradually his attention was riveted on her, at first reluctantly and, as it were, resentfully, and then more and more intently. He felt a sudden desire to find out what it was that was so strange about the woman. In the first place, she appeared to be quite a young, and she was walking in the great heat bareheaded and with no parasol or gloves, waving her arms about in an absurd way. She had on a dress of some light silky material, but also put on strangely awry, scarcely fastened, and torn open at the top of the skirt, close to the waist at the back: a great piece was coming apart and hanging loose. A little kerchief was flung about her bare throat, but lay slanting on one side. On top of everything, the girl was walking unsteadily, stumbling and even staggering from side to side. The encounter drew Raskolnikov whole attention at last. He overtook the girl at the bench, but, on reaching it, she dropped down on it, in the corner; she let her head sink on the back of the bench and closed her eyes, apparently in extreme exhaustion. Looking at her closely, he realized at once that she was completely drunk. It was a strange and shocking sight. He could hardly believe that he was not mistaken. He saw before him the face of an extremely young, fair-haired girl sixteen, even perhaps only fifteen years old, pretty little face, but flushed and, as it were, swollen. The girl seemed hardly to know what she was doing; she crossed one leg over the other, lifting it indecorously, and showed every sign of being unconscious that she was in the street. Raskolnikov did not sit down, but he felt unwilling to leave her, and stood facing her in perplexity. This boulevard is never much frequented; and now, at two o'clock, in the stifling heat, it was quite deserted. And yet on the further side of the boulevard, about fifteen paces away, a gentleman was standing on the edge of the pavement; he, too, would apparently have liked very much to approach the girl with some purpose of his own. He, too, had probably seen her in the distance and had followed her, but found Raskolnikov in his way. He looked angrily at him, though he tried to escape his notice, and stood impatiently biding his time, till the unwelcome ragamuffin should have moved away. His intentions were unmistakable. The gentleman was a fat, thickly-set man, about thirty, full-blooded, with red lips and a little moustache, and very foppishly dressed. Raskolnikov felt furious; he had a sudden longing to insult this fat dandy in some way. He left the girl for a moment and walked towards the gentleman. "Hey! You Svidrigailov! What do you want here?" he shouted, clenching his fists and laughing, spluttering with rage. "What do you mean?" the gentleman asked sternly, frowning with haughty astonishment. "Get away, that what I mean." "How dare you, you rabble!" He raised his cane. Raskolnikov rushed at him with his fists, without reflecting even that the stout gentleman was a match for two men like himself. But at that instant someone seized him from behind, and a police constable stood between them. "That enough, gentlemen, no fighting, please, in a public place. What do you want? Who are you?" he asked Raskolnikov sternly, noticing his rags. Raskolnikov looked at him intently. He had a straight-forward, sensible, soldierly face, with a gray moustache and whiskers. "You are just the man I want," Raskolnikov cried, grabbing his arm. "I am a former student, Raskolnikov . . . You may as well know that too," he added, addressing the gentleman, "come along, I have something to show you." And taking the policeman by the hand he dragged him towards the bench. "Look here, hopelessly drunk, and she has just come down the boulevard. There is no telling who and what she is, but she does not look like a professional. It more likely she has been given drink and deceived somewhere . . . for the first time . . . you understand? And they've put her out into the street like that. Look at the way her dress is torn, look at the way it has been put on: she been dressed by somebody, she hasn't dressed herself, and dressed by unpracticed hands, by a man hands; that evident. And now look there: I don't know that dandy I was going to fight just now, I see him for the first time, but, he, too has seen her on the road, just now, drunk, not knowing what she is doing, and now he is extremely eager to get hold of her, to get her away somewhere while she is in this state . . . that certain, believe me, I am not wrong. I saw him myself watching her and following her, but I prevented him, and he is just waiting for me to go away. Now he has walked away a little, and is standing still, pretending to roll a cigarette . . . Think how can we keep her out of his hands, and how are we to get her home?" The policeman saw it all in a flash. The stout gentleman was easy to understand, he turned to consider the girl. The policeman bent over to examine her more closely, and his face worked with genuine compassion. "Ah, what a pity!" he said, shaking his head "why, she is still a child! She has been deceived, that right. Listen, lady," he began addressing her, "where do you live?" The girl opened her tired and bleary eyes, gazed blankly at the speaker and waved her hand. "Here," said Raskolnikov feeling in his pocket and finding twenty kopecks, "here, call a cab and tell him to drive her to her address. The only thing is to find out her address!" "Young lady, young lady!" the policeman began again, taking the money. "I'll fetch you a cab and take you home myself. Where shall I take you, eh? Where do you live?" "Go away! ...Won't leave me alone," the girl muttered, and once more waved her hand. "Ah, ah, how awful! It shameful, young lady, it a shame!" He shook his head again, shocked, sympathetic and indignant. "It a difficult job," the policeman said to Raskolnikov, and as he did so, he again looked him up and down in a rapid glance. He, too, must have seemed a strange figure to him: dressed in rags and handing him money! "Did you find her far from here?" he asked him. "I tell you she was walking in front of me, staggering, just here, in the boulevard. She only just reached the bench and sank down on it." "Ah, the shameful things that are done in the world nowadays, God have mercy on us! An innocent creature like that, drunk already! She has been deceived, that a sure thing. See how her dress has been torn too . . . Ah, the vice one sees nowadays! And she probably belongs to gentlefolk too, poor ones maybe . . . There are many like that nowadays. She looks refined, too, as though she were a lady," and he bent over her once more. Perhaps he had daughters growing up like that, "looking like ladies and refined" with pretensions to gentility and fashion . . . "The chief thing is," Raskolnikov persisted, "to keep her out of this scoundrel hands! Why should he too outrage her! It as clear as day what he is after; ah, the brute, he is not moving off!" Raskolnikov spoke aloud and pointed to him. The gentleman heard him, and seemed about to fly into a rage again, but thought better of it, and confined himself to a contemptuous look. He then walked slowly another ten paces away and again halted. "Keep her out of his hands we can," said the constable thoughtfully, "if only she'd tell us where to take her, but as it is ...Young lady, hey, young lady!" he bent over her once more. She opened her eyes fully all of a sudden, looked at him intently, as though realizing something, got up from the bench and started walking away in the direction from which she had come. "Ugh! No shame, won't leave me alone!" she said, waving her hand again. She walked quickly, though staggering as before. The dandy followed her, but along another avenue, keeping his eye on her. "Don't worry, I won't let him have her," the policeman said resolutely, and he set off after them. "Ah, the vice we see nowadays!" he repeated aloud, sighing. At that moment something seemed to sting Raskolnikov; in an instant everything turned over inside of him. "Hey, here!" he shouted after the policeman. The latter turned round. "Let it be! What it to you? Let it go! Let him amuse himself." He pointed at the dandy, "What do you care?" The policeman was bewildered, and stared at him open-eyed. Raskolnikov laughed. "Eh!" said the policeman, with a gesture of contempt, and he walked after the dandy and the girl, probably taking Raskolnikov for a madman or something even worse. "He has carried off my twenty kopecks," Raskolnikov murmured angrily when he was left alone. "Well, let him take as much from the other fellow and let him have the girl and so let it end. And why did I want to interfere? Is it for me to help? Have I any right to help? Let them devour each other alive what is to me? How did I dare to give him twenty kopecks? Were they mine?" In spite of those strange words he felt very wretched. He sat down on the deserted bench. His thought strayed aimlessly . . . In fact he found it hard to fix his mind on anything at that moment. He longed to forget himself altogether, to forget everything, and then to wake up and begin anew . . . "Poor girl!" he said, looking at the empty corner where she had sat "She will come to her senses and weep, and then her mother will find out . . . She will give her a beating, a horrible, shameful beating and then maybe, throw her out . . . And even if she does not, the Daria Frantsevnas will get wind of it, and the girl will soon be slipping out on the sly here and there. Then right away there will be the hospital (that always the luck of those girls with respectable mothers, who go wrong on the sly) and then . . . again the hospital . . . drink . . . the taverns . . . and more hospital, in two or three years a wreck, and her life over at eighteen or nineteen . . . Have not I seen cases like that? And how have they been brought to it? They've all come to it like that. Ugh! But what does it matter? That as it should be, they tell us. A certain percentage, they tell us, must every year go . . . that way . . . to the devil, I suppose, so that the rest may remain fresh, and not be interfered with. A percentage! What splendid words they have; they are so scientific, so consolatory . . . Once you've said ?Äòpercentage,' there nothing more to worry about. If we had any other word . . . maybe we might feel more uneasy . . . But what if Dunechka were one of the percentage! Of another one if not that one?" "But where am I going?" he thought suddenly. "Strange, I came out for something. As soon as I had read the letter I came out . . . I was going to Vassilyevsky Island, to Razumikhin. That what it was . . . now I remember. What for, though? And how is it that the idea of going to Razumikhin flew into my head just now? That curious." He wondered at himself. Razumikhin was one of his former comrades at the university. It was remarkable that Raskolnikov had hardly any friends at the university; he kept aloof from everyone, went to see no-one, and did not welcome anyone who came to see him, and indeed everyone soon turned away from him too. He took no part in the students' gatherings, amusements or conversations. He worked with great intensity without sparing himself, and he was respected for this, but no-one liked him. He was very poor, and there was a sort of haughty pride and reserve about him, as though he were keeping something to himself. He seemed to some of his comrades to look down upon them all as children, as though he were superior in development, knowledge and convictions, as though their convictions and interests were beneath him. With Razumikhin, though, he had for some reason become friends, or, rather, he was more open and communicative with him. Indeed it was impossible to be on any other terms with Razumikhin. He was an exceptionally good-humored and communicative youth, kind to the point of simplicity, though both depth and dignity lay concealed under that simplicity. The better of his comrades understood this, and all loved him. He was a man of no small intelligence, though he was certainly rather a simpleton at times. He was of striking appearance tall, thin, black-haired and always badly shaved. He was sometimes rowdy and was reputed to be of great physical strength. One night, when out in a festive company, he had with one blow laid a gigantic policeman on his back. There was no limit to his drinking powers, but he could abstain from drink altogether; he sometimes went too far in his pranks; but he could do without pranks altogether. Another thing striking about Razumikhin, no failure ever distressed him, and it seemed as though no unfavorable circumstances could crush him. He could lodge anywhere, and bear the extremes of cold and hunger. He was very poor, and supported himself entirely on what he could earn by work of one sort or another. He knew of no end of resources by which to get money, through work of course. He spent one whole winter without lighting his stove, and used to declare that he liked it better, because one slept more soundly in the cold. For the present he, too, had been obliged to give up the university, but it was only for a time, and he was working with all his might to save enough to return to his studies again. Raskolnikov had not been to see him for the last four months, and Razumikhin did not even know his address. About two months before, they had met in the street, but Raskolnikov had turned away and even crossed to the other side so that he might not be observed. And though Razumikhin noticed him, he passed him by, as he did not want to disturb a friend. CHAPTER FIVE "OF COURSE, I'VE BEEN meaning lately to go to Razumikhin to ask for work, to ask him to get me lessons or something . . . " Raskolnikov thought, "but what help can he be to me now? Suppose he gets me lessons, suppose he shares his last kopeck with me, if he has any kopecks, so that I could get some boots and make myself tidy enough to give lessons . . . hm . . . Well and what then? What will I do with the few coppers I earn? That not what I want now. It really absurd for me to go to Razumikhin . . . " The question why he was now going to Razumikhin agitated him even more than he was himself aware; he kept uneasily seeking for some sinister significance in this apparently ordinary action. "Could I have expected to set it all straight and to find a way out by means of Razumikhin alone?" he asked himself in perplexity. He pondered and rubbed his forehead, and, strange to say, after long musing, suddenly, as if it were spontaneously and by chance, a very strange thought came into his head. "Hm . . . to Razumikhin ," he said all at once, calmly, as though he had reached a final determination. "I will go to Razumikhin of course, but . . . not now. I will go to him . . . on the next day after it, when it will already be over and everything will begin afresh . . . " And suddenly he realized what he was thinking. "After it," he shouted, jumping up from the bench, "but is it really going to happen? Is it possible it really will happen?" He left the bench, and went off almost at a run; he meant to turn back, homewards, but the thought of going home suddenly filled him with intense loathing; it was in that hole, in that awful little cupboard of his, that all this had for more than a month now been growing up in him; and he walked on at random. His nervous shudder had passed into a fever that made him feel shivering; in spite of the heat he felt cold. With a kind of effort he began almost unconsciously, from some inner necessity, to stare at all the objects before him, as though looking for something to distract his attention; but he did not succeed, and kept lapsing every moment into brooding. When with a start he lifted his head again and looked around, he forgot at once what he had just been thinking about and even where he was going. In this way he walked right across Vassilyevsky Island, came out on to the Lesser Neva, crossed the bridge and turned towards the islands. The greenness and freshness were at first restful to his weary eyes used to the dust and lime of the town and the huge houses that hemmed him in and weighed upon him. Here there were no taverns, no stuffiness, no stench. But soon these new pleasant sensations turned into morbid irritability. Sometimes he stood still before a brightly painted summer villa standing among green foliage, he gazed through the fence, he saw in the distance fashionably dressed women on the verandahs and balconies, and children running in the gardens. The flowers especially caught his attention; he gazed at them longer than at anything. He was met, too, by luxurious carriages and by men and women on horseback; he watched them with curious eyes and forgot about them before they had vanished from his sight. Once he stopped and counted his money; he found he had thirty kopecks. "Twenty to the policeman, three to Nastasia for the letter, so I must have given forty-seven or fifty to the Marmeladovs yesterday," he thought, making calculations for some unknown reason, but he soon forgot why he had taken the money out of his pocket. He recalled it on passing an eating-house or tavern, and felt that he was hungry . . . Going into the eatery he drank a glass of vodka and ate a pie of some sort. He finished eating it when he was on the road again. It was a long while since he had taken vodka and it had an effect upon him at once, though he only drank a wine-glassful. His legs felt suddenly heavy and a great drowsiness came upon him. He turned homewards, but reaching Petrovsky Island he stopped completely exhausted, turned off the road into the bushes, sank down upon the grass and instantly fell asleep. In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have an extraordinary distinctiveness, vividness, and extraordinary semblance of reality. At times monstrous images are created, but the setting and the entire process of imagining are so truth-like and filled with details so delicate, so unexpected, but so artistically consistent with the picture as a whole, that the dreamer, were he an artist like Pushkin or Turgenev even, could never have invented them in the waking state. Such sick dreams always remain long in the memory and make a powerful impression on the overwrought and excited nervous system. Raskolnikov dreamed a frightening dream. He dreamt he was back in his childhood, in their little town. He is a child about seven years old, walking in the countryside with his father on the evening of a holiday. It is a gray and stifling day, the country is exactly as he remembered it; indeed he recalled it far more vividly in his dream than he had done in memory. The little town stands on a level flat as bare as the hand, not a willow near it; only in the far distance, a wood lies, a dark blur on the very edge of the horizon. A few paces beyond the last market garden stands a tavern, a big tavern, which had always aroused in him a feeling of aversion, even of fear, when he walked by it with his father. There was always such a crowd there, such shouting, laughter and swearing, such hideous hoarse singing and often fighting. Drunken and scary mugs were always hanging about the tavern. He used to cling close to his father, trembling all over when he met them. Near the tavern the road becomes a track, always dusty, and the dust is always so black. It is a winding road, and about a hundred paces further on, it turns to the right to the graveyard. In the middle of the graveyard is a stone church with a green cupola where he used to go to mass two or three times a year with his father and mother, when a service was held in memory of his grandmother, who had long been dead, and whom he had never seen. On these occasions they used to take on a white dish tied up in a table napkin a special sort of rice pudding with raisins stuck in it in the shape of a cross. He loved that church, the old-fashioned icons with no setting and the old priest with the shaking head. Near his grandmother grave, which was marked by a stone, was the little grave of his younger brother who had died at six months old. He did not remember him at all, but he had been told about his little brother, and whenever he visited the graveyard he used religiously and reverently to cross himself and to bow down and kiss the little grave. And now he is dreaming that he is walking with his father past the tavern on the way to the graveyard; he is holding his father hand and looking with dread at the tavern. A peculiar circumstance attracts his attention: there seems to be some kind of festivity going on here, there are crowds of gaily dressed townspeople, peasant women, their husbands, and riff-raff of all sorts. All are singing, all are drunk, and near the entrance of the tavern there is a cart, but a strange cart. It is one of those big carts usually drawn by heavy cart-horses and laden with casks of wine or other heavy goods. He always liked looking at those great cart-horses, with their long manes, thick legs, and slow even pace, drawing along a perfect mountain with no appearance of effort, as though it were easier going with a load than without it. But now, strange to say, in the shafts of such a cart he sees a thin little sorrel beast, one of those peasants' nags which he had often seen straining their utmost under a heavy load of wood or hay, especially when the wheels were stuck in the mud or in a rut. And the peasants would beat them with whips so cruelly, so cruelly, sometimes even about the nose and eyes, and he felt so sorry, so sorry for them that he almost cried, and his mother always used to take him away from the window. All of a sudden there is a great uproar of shouting, singing and the balalaika, and from the tavern a number of big and very drunken peasants come out, wearing red and blue shirts and coats thrown over their shoulders. "Get in, get in!" shouts one of them, a young thick-necked peasant with a fleshy face red as a carrot. "I'll take you all, get in!" But at once there is an outbreak of laughter and exclamations in the crowd. "Take us all with a beast like that!" "Why, Mikolka, are you crazy to put a nag like that in such a cart?" "And this mare is twenty if she is a day, pals!" "Get in, I'll take you all," Mikolka shouts again, leaping first into the cart, seizing the reins and standing straight up in front. "The bay has gone with Matvey," he shouts from the cart "and this brute, pals, is just breaking my heart, I could kill her. She just eating her head off. Get in, I tell you! I'll make her gallop! She'll gallop!" and he picks up the whip, preparing himself with relish to flog the little mare. "Get in! Come along!" The crowd is laughing. "Do you hear, she'll gallop!" "Gallop indeed! She has not had a gallop in her for the last ten years!" "She'll jog along!" "No being sorry for her, pals, bring a whip each of you, get ready!" "That right! Give it to her!" They all clamber into Mikolka cart, laughing and making jokes. Six of them get in and there is still room for more. They haul in a fat, rosy-cheeked woman. She is dressed in red cotton, in a pointed, beaded headdress and warm boots; she is cracking nuts and laughing. The crowd round them is laughing too, and really, how could they help laughing? That wretched nag is to drag all the cartload of them at a gallop! Two young lads in the cart get whips ready right away to help Mikolka. With the cry of "Go!" the mare tugs with all her might, but far from galloping, can scarcely move forward; she is struggling with her legs, gasping and shrinking from the blows of the three whips showered upon her like hail. The laughter in the cart and in the crowd is redoubled, but Mikolka flies into a rage and thrashes the mare furiously, with quickened blows, as though he thinks she really can gallop. "Let me get in, too, pals," shouts a young man in the crowd, his appetite aroused. "Get in, all get in," cries Mikolka, "she'll pull you all. I'll beat her to death!" And he thrashes and thrashes at the mare, beside himself with fury. "Father, Father," he cries, "Father, what are they doing? Father, they are beating the poor horse!" "Come along, come along!" says his father. "They are drunk and foolish, having fun; come away, don't look!" and he tries to lead him away, but he tears himself away from his hand, and, beside himself with horror, runs to the horse. But the poor horse is already in a bad way. She is gasping, pausing, then tugging again and almost falling. "Beat her to death!" cries Mikolka, "it come to that. I'll do her in!" "What are you about, are you a Christian, you devil?" shouts an old man in the crowd. "Did anyone ever see anything like it? A wretched nag like that pulling such a cartload," adds another. "You'll kill her!" shouts the third. "Stay out! It my property. I do as I like. Get in, more of you! Everyone get in! She'll go at a gallop, I say! . . . " All of a sudden laughter breaks into a roar and covers everything: the mare, roused by the shower of blows, in her impotence had begun kicking. Even the old man could not help smiling. To think of a wretched little nag like that trying to kick! Two lads in the crowd snatch up whips and run to the mare to beat her about the ribs, one on each side. "Lash her in the face, in the eyes, in the eyes," cries Mikolka. "Give us a song, pals," shouts someone in the cart and everyone in the cart joins in a riotous song, jingling a tambourine and whistling in the refrains. The woman goes on cracking nuts and laughing. ... He runs beside the mare, runs in front of her, sees her being whipped across the eyes, right in the eyes! He is crying, his heart is rising, his tears are streaming. One of the men gives him a cut with the whip across the face, he does not feel it. Wringing his hands and screaming, he rushes up to the gray-headed old man with the gray beard, who is shaking his head in disapproval. One woman seizes him by the hand and wants to take him away, but he tears himself from her and runs back to the horse. She is almost at the last gasp, but begins kicking once more. "I'll teach you to kick," Mikolka shouts ferociously. He throws down the whip, bends forward and picks up from the bottom of the cart a long, thick shaft, takes hold of one end with both hands and with an effort brandishes it over the mare. "He'll crush her," was shouted round him. "He'll kill her!" "It my property," shouts Mikolka and brings the shaft down with a swinging blow. There is a sound of a heavy thud. "Thrash her, thrash her! What the matter?" shout voices in the crowd. And Mikolka swings the shaft a second time and a blow falls a second time on the spine of the luckless mare. She sinks back on her haunches, but lurches forward and tugs forward, tugs with all her force, first on one side and then on the other, trying to move the cart. But the six whips are attacking her in all directions, and the shaft is raised again and falls a third time, then a fourth, with heavy measured blows. Mikolka is furious that he cannot kill her at one blow. "She a tough one!" they shout. "She'll fall in a minute, pals, you'll see, and that the end of her!" shouts an admiring spectator in the crowd. "Get an axe, hell! Finish her off," shouts a third. "Eh, eat the flies! Make way!" Mikolka screams frantically, throws down the shaft, stoops down in the cart and picks up an iron crowbar. "Look out," he shouts, and with all his might deals a stunning blow at his poor mare. The blow crashes down; the mare staggers, sinks back, tries to pull, but the bar falls again with a swinging blow on her back and she falls on the ground as if all four legs had been knocked out from her at once. "Finish her off," shouts Mikolka and, beside himself, leaps out of the cart. Several young men, also red and drunk, seize anything they come across whips, sticks, poles, and run to the dying mare. Mikolka stands on one side and begins dealing random blows to her back with the crowbar. The mare stretches out her muzzle, draws a long breath and dies. "You butchered her!" someone shouts in the crowd. "Should have galloped!" "My property!" shouts Mikolka, with bloodshot eyes, brandishing the bar in his hands. He stands as though regretting that he has nothing more to beat. "No mistake about it, you are not a Christian," many voices are shouting in the crowd. But the poor boy is already beside himself. He makes his way screaming through the crowd to the sorrel nag, puts his arms round her bleeding dead muzzle and kisses it, kisses the eyes and the lips . .. Then he suddenly jumps up and flies in a frenzy with his little fists out at Mikolka. At that instant his father, who had long been running after him, snatches him up and carries him out of the crowd. "Come along, come! Let go home," he says to him. "Father! Why did they . . . kill . . . the poor horse!" he sobs, but his breath catches and the words come in shrieks from his panting chest. "They are drunk . . . fooling around . . . it not our business!" says his father. He puts his arms round his father but he feels choked, choked. He tries to draw a breath, to cry out and wakes up. He woke up sweating, gasping for breath, his hair soaked with perspiration, and stood up in terror. "Thank God, that was only a dream," he said, sitting down under a tree and drawing deep breaths. "But what is it? Is it some fever coming on? Such a hideous dream!" His whole body felt broken; darkness and confusion were in his soul. He rested his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands. "Good God!" he cried, "can it be, can it be, that I will really take an axe, that I will strike her on the head, split her skull open . . . that I will tread in the sticky warm blood, break the lock, steal and tremble; hide, all spattered in the blood . . . with the axe . . . Good God, can it be?" He was shaking like a leaf as he said this. "But why am I going on like this?" he continued, sitting up again, as it were in profound amazement. "I knew that I could never bring myself to it, so what have I been torturing myself for till now? Yesterday, yesterday, when I went to make that . . . experiment, yesterday I realized completely that I could never bear to do it . . . Why am I going over it again, then? Why have I till now been hesitating? As I came down the stairs yesterday, I said myself that it was base, loathsome, vile, vile . . . the very thought of it made me feel sick when I wasn't dreaming and filled me with horror." "No, I couldn't stand it, I couldn't stand it! Granted, granted that there is no flaw in all that reasoning, that all that I have concluded this last month is clear as day, true as arithmetic . . . My God! Still I couldn't bring myself to it! I couldn't stand it, I couldn't stand it! Why, why then am I still . . . ?" He rose to his feet, looked round in wonder as though surprised at finding himself in this place, and went towards T____ Bridge.14 He was pale, his eyes glowed, he was exhausted in every limb, but he seemed suddenly to breathe more easily. He felt he had already cast off that fearful burden that had so long been weighing upon him, and all at once there was a sense of relief and peace in his soul. "Lord," he prayed, "show me my path I renounce that accursed . . . dream of mine." Crossing the bridge, he gazed quietly and calmly at the Neva, at the glowing red sun setting in the glowing sky. In spite of his weakness he was not even conscious of fatigue. It was as though an abscess that had been forming for a month past in his heart had suddenly broken. Freedom, freedom! He was free now from that spell, that sorcery, that enchantment, that obsession! Later on, when he recalled that time and all that happened to him during those days, minute by minute, point by point, step by step, he was superstitiously impressed by one circumstance, which though in itself not very exceptional, always seemed to him afterwards the predestined turning-point of his fate. Namely, he could never understand and explain to himself why, when he was tired and worn out, when it would have been more convenient for him to go home by the shortest and most direct way, he had returned by the Haymarket where he had no need to go. It was obviously and quite unnecessarily out of his way, though not much so. It is true that it happened to him dozens of times to return home without noticing what streets he passed through. But why, he was always asking himself, why had such an important, such a decisive and at the same time such an absolutely chance meeting happened in the Haymarket (where he had moreover no reason to go) at the very hour, the very minute of his life when he was just in the very mood and in the very circumstances in which that meeting was able to exert the gravest and most decisive influence on his whole destiny? As though it had been lying in wait for him on purpose! It was about nine o'clock when he crossed the Haymarket. At the tables and the barrows, at the booths and the stores, all the market people were closing their establishments or clearing away and packing up their wares and, like their customers, were going home. Rag-pickers and scroungers of all kinds were crowding round the eateries and especially the taverns in the dirty and stinking courtyards of the Haymarket. Raskolnikov preferred this place and all the neighboring alleys when he wandered aimlessly in the streets. Here his rags did not attract contemptuous attention, and one could walk about in anything without scandalizing people. At the corner of K____ Alley15 a huckster and his wife had two tables set out with ribbons, thread, cotton handkerchiefs, &c. They, too, had got up to go home, but were lingering in conversation with a friend, who had just come up to them. This friend was Lizaveta Ivanovna, or simply, as everyone called her, Lizaveta, the younger sister of the old pawnbroker, Aliona Ivanovna, whom Raskolnikov had visited the previous day to pawn his watch and make his experiment . . . He already knew all about Lizaveta and she knew him a little too. She was a single woman of about thirty-five, tall, clumsy, timid, submissive and almost idiotic. She was a complete slave to her sister, worked for her day and night, went in fear and trembling of her, and even suffered beatings from her. She was standing with a bundle before the huckster and his wife, listening earnestly and doubtfully. They were explaining something to her especially heatedly. The moment Raskolnikov caught sight of her, he was overcome by a strange sensation as it were of intense astonishment, though there was nothing astonishing about this meeting. "You could make up your mind for yourself, Lizaveta Ivanovna," the huckster was saying aloud. "Come round tomorrow about seven. They will be here too." "Tomorrow?" said Lizaveta slowly and thoughtfully, as though unable to make up her mind. "Upon my word, what a fright you are in of Aliona Ivanovna," gabbled the huckster wife, a lively little woman. "I look at you, you are like some little babe. And she is not your own sister either nothing but a half sister and what a hand she keeps over you!" "Just this time don't say a word to Aliona Ivanovna," her husband interrupted; "that my advice, but come round to us without asking. It will be worth your while. Your sister may see for herself later on." "Should I come?" "About seven o'clock tomorrow. And they will be here too. You'll decide for yourself." "And we'll have tea," added his wife. "All right, I'll come," said Lizaveta, still pondering, and she began slowly moving away. Raskolnikov had just passed and heard no more. He passed softly, unnoticed, trying not to miss a word. His first amazement turned gradually to horror, like a shiver running down his spine. He had learned, he had suddenly and quite unexpectedly learned, that the next day at seven o'clock Lizaveta, the old woman sister and only companion, would be away from home and that therefore at seven o'clock precisely the old woman would be left alone. He was only a few steps from his apartment. He went in like a man condemned to death. He thought of nothing and was completely incapable of thinking; but he felt suddenly in his whole being that he had no more freedom of thought, no will, and that everything was suddenly and irrevocably decided. Certainly, even if he had to wait whole years for a suitable opportunity, his plan in mind, he could not count for sure on a more certain step towards the success of the plan than that which suddenly had just presented itself. In any case, it would have been difficult to find out beforehand and with certainty, with greater exactness and less risk, and without dangerous inquiries and investigations, that next day at such and such a time such and such an old woman, on whose life an attempt was contemplated, would be at home entirely alone. CHAPTER SIX LATER ON RASKOLNIKOV HAPPENED to find out why the huckster and his wife had invited Lizaveta. It was a very ordinary matter and there was nothing exceptional about it. A family who had come to the town and been reduced to poverty were selling their household goods and clothes, all women things. As the things would have fetched little in the market, they were looking for a dealer, and this was Lizaveta business. She took up commissions, went around on business, and had many clients, as she was very honest and always fixed the best price and stuck to it. She spoke as a rule little and, as we have said already, she was so submissive and timid . . . But Raskolnikov had become superstitious recently. The traces of superstition remained in him long after, and were almost ineradicable. And in all this he was always afterwards disposed to see something strange and mysterious, as it were the presence of some peculiar influences and coincidences. In the previous winter a student he knew called Pokorev, who had left for Kharkov, had chanced in conversation to give him the address of Aliona Ivanovna, the old pawnbroker, in case he might want to pawn anything. For a long while he did not go to her, for he had lessons and managed to get by somehow. Six weeks ago he had remembered the address; he had two articles that could be pawned: his father old silver watch and a little gold ring with three red stones, a keepsake from his sister at parting. He decided to take the ring. When he found the old woman he had felt an insurmountable repulsion for her at the first glance, though he knew nothing special about her yet. He got two rubles from her and went into a miserable little tavern on his way home. He asked for tea, sat down and sank into deep thought. A strange idea was pecking at his brain like a chicken in the egg, and very, very much absorbed him. Almost beside him at the next table there was sitting a student, whom he did not know or remember at all, and with him a young officer. They had played a game of billiards and began drinking tea. Suddenly he heard the student mention to the officer the pawnbroker Aliona Ivanovna and give him her address. This of itself seemed strange to Raskolnikov; he had just come from there and here they were talking about her. By accident, of course, but there he is, unable to shake off a very extraordinary impression, and here someone seems to be speaking expressly for him; the student suddenly begins telling his friend various details about Aliona Ivanovna. "She is first rate," he said. "You can always get money from her. She is as rich as a Jew, she can give you five thousand at a time but she is not above taking a pledge for a ruble. Lots of our fellows have had dealings with her. But she is an awful old harpy . . . " And he began describing how spiteful and capricious she was, how if you were only a day late with your interest the pledge was lost; how she gave a quarter of the value of an article and took five and even seven percent a month on it and so on. The student chattered on, saying that she had a sister Lizaveta, whom the repulsive little creature was continually beating, and kept in complete bondage like a small child, though Lizaveta was at least six feet tall . . . "There a phenomenon for you," cried the student and he laughed. They began talking about Lizaveta. The student spoke about her with a peculiar relish and was continually laughing and the officer listened with great interest and asked him to send Lizaveta to do some mending for him. Raskolnikov did not miss a word and learned everything about her right away. Lizaveta was younger than the old woman and was her half-sister, being the child of a different mother. She was already thirty-five. She worked day and night for her sister, and besides doing the cooking and the washing, she did sewing and even hired herself out to wash floors and gave her sister all she earned. She did not dare to accept an order or job of any kind without the old woman permission. The old woman had already made her will, and Lizaveta knew of it, and by this will she would not get a kopeck; nothing but the movables, chairs and so on; all the money, meanwhile, was left to a monastery in the province of N____,16 that prayers might be said for her in perpetuity. Lizaveta was of lower rank than her sister, a collegiate assessor wife, unmarried and awfully uncouth in appearance, remarkably tall with long feet that looked as if they were bent outwards. She always wore battered goatskin shoes, and kept herself clean. What the student expressed most surprise and amusement about was the fact that Lizaveta was constantly pregnant. "But you say she is ugly?" observed the officer. "Yes, she is so dark-skinned and looks like a soldier dressed up, but you know she is not at all ugly. She has such a kind face and eyes. Very much so. And the proof of it is that lots of people are attracted by her. She is such a meek, mild, gentle creature, always willing, willing to do anything. And her smile is really very sweet." "You seem to find her attractive yourself," laughed the officer. "Because she strange. No, I'll tell you what. I could kill that damned old woman and make off with her money, I assure you, without the faintest conscience-prick," the student added hotly. The officer again burst out laughing while Raskolnikov shuddered. How strange it was! "Listen, I want to ask you a serious question," the student said heatedly. "I was joking of course, but look here; on one side we have a stupid, senseless, worthless, spiteful, ailing old woman, not simply useless but doing actual harm, who herself has no idea what she is living for, and who will die in a day or two in any case. You understand? You understand?" "Yes, yes, I understand," answered the officer, watching his excited companion attentively. "Well, listen then. On the other hand, fresh young lives thrown away in vain for lack of support and by thousands, on every side! A hundred, a thousand good deeds and undertakings could be done and helped on that old woman money, which will be buried in a monastery! Hundreds, thousands perhaps, might be set on the right path; dozens of families saved from destitution, from corruption, from ruin, from vice, from venereal wards and all with her money. Kill her, take her money and with the help of it devote yourself to the service of humanity and the common good. What do you think, would not one tiny crime be wiped out by thousands of good deeds? For one life thousands would be saved from corruption and decay. One death, and a hundred lives in exchange it simple arithmetic! Besides, what value has the life of that sickly, stupid, ill-natured old woman in the balance of existence! No more than the life of a louse, of a cockroach, less in fact because the old woman is doing harm. She is wearing out the lives of others; the other day she bit Lizaveta finger out of spite; it almost had to be amputated!" "Of course she does not deserve to live," remarked the officer, "but there it is, it nature." "Oh, well, brother, but we have to correct and direct nature, and, but for that, we'll drown in an ocean of prejudice. But for that, there would never have been a single great man. They talk of duty, conscience I don't want to say anything against duty and conscience; but the point is what do we mean by them. Wait, I have another question to ask you. Listen!" "No, you wait, I'll ask you a question. Listen!" "Well?" "You are talking and speechifying away, but tell me, would you kill the old woman yourself or not?" "Of course not! I was only arguing the justice of it . . . It nothing to do with me . . . " "But I think, if you would not do it yourself, then there no justice in it! Let have another game!" Raskolnikov was extremely agitated. Of course, it was all very ordinary and very frequent youthful talk and thought, such as he had often heard before, only in different forms and on different themes. But why had he happened to hear just such a discussion and such ideas at the very moment when his own brain was just conceiving . .. the very same ideas? And why, just at the moment when he had brought away the embryo of his idea from the old woman had he happened upon a conversation about her? This coincidence always seemed strange to him. This trivial talk in a tavern had an immense influence on him as the action developed further; as though there had really been in it something preordained, some guiding hint . . . When he returned from the Haymarket he flung himself on the sofa and sat for a whole hour without stirring. Meanwhile it got dark; he had no candle and, indeed, it did not occur to him to light up. He could never recollect whether he had been thinking about anything at that time. At last he was conscious of his former fever and shivering, and he realized with relief that he could lie down on the sofa. Soon heavy, leaden sleep came over him, as though crushing him. He slept an extraordinarily long time and without dreaming. Nastasia, coming into his room at ten o'clock the next morning, had a hard time waking him. She brought him tea and bread. The tea was again the second brew and again in her own tea-pot. "My goodness, how he sleeps!" she cried indignantly. "Sleeping and sleeping!" He got up with an effort. His head ached, he stood up, took a turn in his little room and sank back on the sofa again. "Going to sleep again," cried Nastasia. "Are you ill, eh?" He made no reply. "Do you want some tea?" "Later," he said with an effort, closing his eyes again and turning to the wall. Nastasia stood over him. "Perhaps he really is ill," she said, turned and went out. She came in again at two o'clock with soup. He was lying as before. The tea stood untouched. Nastasia felt positively offended and began angrily rousing him. "Why are you lying like a log?" she shouted, looking at him with repulsion. He got up, and sat down again, but said nothing and stared at the floor. "Are you ill or not?" asked Nastasia and again received no answer. "You'd better go out and get a breath of air," she said after a pause. "Will you eat it or not?" "Later," he said weakly. "You can go." And he motioned her out. She remained a little longer, looked at him with compassion and went out. A few minutes later, he raised his eyes and looked for a long while at the tea and the soup. Then he took the bread, took up a spoon and began to eat. He ate a little, three or four spoonfuls, without appetite, as it were, mechanically. His head ached less. After his meal he stretched himself on the sofa again, but now he could not sleep; he lay without stirring, with his face in the pillow. He was haunted by daydreams and such strange daydreams; in one, that kept recurring, he imagined that he was in Africa, in Egypt, in some sort of oasis. The caravan is resting, the camels are peacefully lying down; the palms stand all around in a complete circle; everyone is eating dinner. But he is drinking water straight from a spring which flows gurgling close by. And it is so cool, and such wonderful, wonderful, blue, cold water is running among the colored stones and over the clean sand which glistens here and there like gold . . . Suddenly he heard a clock strike. He started, roused himself, raised his head, looked out of the window, and seeing how late it was, suddenly jumped up wide awake as though someone had pulled him off the sofa. He crept on tiptoe to the door, stealthily opened it and began listening on the staircase. His heart beat terribly. But all was quiet on the stairs as if everyone was asleep . . . It seemed to him strange and monstrous that he could have slept in such forgetfulness from the previous day and had done nothing, had prepared nothing yet . . . And meanwhile perhaps it had struck six. And his drowsiness and stupefaction were followed by an extraordinary, feverish, as it were, distracted, haste. But the preparations to be made were few. He concentrated all his energies on thinking of everything and forgetting nothing; and his heart kept beating and thumping so that he could hardly breathe. First he had to make a noose and sew it into his overcoat a work of a moment. He rummaged under his pillow and picked out amongst the linen stuffed away under it, a completely worn out old unwashed shirt. From its rags he tore a long strip, a couple of inches wide and about sixteen inches long. He folded this strip in two, took off his wide, sturdy summer overcoat of some thick cotton material (his only outer garment) and began sewing the two ends of the rag on the inside, under the left armhole. His hands shook as he sewed, but he prevailed, and so well that nothing showed on the outside when he put the coat on again. He had got the needle and thread ready long before and they lay on his table in a piece of paper. As for the noose, it was a very ingenious device of his own; the noose was intended for the axe. He couldn't very well carry the axe through the street in his hands. And if hidden under his coat he would still have had to support it with his hand, which would have been noticeable. Now he had only to put the head of the axe in the noose, and it would hang quietly under his arm on the inside. Putting his hand in his coat pocket, he could hold the end of the handle all the way, so that it did not swing; and as the coat was very full, a regular sack in fact, it could not be seen from outside that he was holding something with the hand that was in the pocket. This noose, too, he had designed two weeks before. When he had finished with this, he thrust his hand into a little opening between his "Turkish" sofa and the floor, fumbled in the left corner and pulled out the pledge, which he had got ready long before and hidden there. This pledge was, however, not a pledge at all, but only a smoothly planed piece of wood the size and thickness of a silver cigarette case. He picked up this piece of wood in one of his wanderings in a courtyard where there was some sort of a workshop. Afterwards he had added to the wood a thin smooth piece of iron, some fragment, probably, which he had also picked up at the same time in the street. Putting the iron piece, which was a little smaller, on the piece of wood, he fastened them very firmly, crossing and re-crossing the thread round them; then wrapped them carefully and daintily in clean white paper and tied up the parcel so that it would be very difficult to untie it. This was in order to divert the attention of the old woman for a time, while she was trying to undo the knot, and so to gain a moment. The iron strip was added to give weight, so that the woman might not immediately guess that the "thing" was made of wood. All this had been stored by him beforehand under the sofa. He had only just got the pledge out when suddenly he heard someone shouting in the yard: "It struck six long ago!" "Long ago! My God!" He rushed to the door, listened, grabbed his hat and began to descend his thirteen steps cautiously, noiselessly, like a cat. He had still the most important thing to do to steal the axe from the kitchen. That the deed must be done with an axe he had decided long ago. He had also a pocket pruning-knife, but he could not rely on the knife and still less on his own strength, and so resolved finally on the axe. We may note in passing, one peculiarity in regard to all the final resolutions taken by him in the matter; they had one strange characteristic: the more final they were, the more hideous and the more absurd they at once became in his eyes. In spite of all his agonizing inward struggle, he never for a single instant all that time could believe in the carrying out of his plans. And, indeed, if it had ever happened that everything to the least point could have been considered and finally settled, and no uncertainty of any kind had remained, he would, it seems, have renounced it all as something absurd, monstrous and impossible. But a whole heap of unsettled points and uncertainties remained. As for getting the axe, that trifling business cost him no anxiety, for nothing could be easier. Nastasia was continually out of the house, especially in the evenings; she would run in to the neighbors' apartments or to a store, and always left the door ajar. It was the one thing the landlady was always scolding her about. And so when the time came, he would only have to go quietly into the kitchen and to take the axe, and an hour later (when everything was over) go in and put it back again. But there were doubtful points too. Supposing he returned an hour later to put it back, and Nastasia had come back and was on the spot. He would of course have to go by and wait till she went out again. But supposing she were in the meantime to miss the axe, start looking, make an outcry that would mean suspicion or at least grounds for suspicion. But those were all trifles which he had not even begun to consider, and indeed he had no time. He was thinking of the chief point, and put off trifling details, until he could believe in it all. But that seemed utterly unattainable. So it seemed to him at least. He could not imagine, for instance, that he would sometime stop thinking, get up and simply go there . . . Even his recent experiment (i.e., his visit with the intention of conducting a final survey of the place) was simply an attempt at an experiment, far from being the real thing, as though one should say "come, let us go and try it why dream about it!" and at once he had broken down and had run away cursing, furious with himself. Meanwhile it would seem, as regards the moral question, that his analysis was complete; his casuistry had become keen as a razor, and he could no longer find conscious objections in himself. But in the end he simply ceased to believe himself, and doggedly, slavishly sought arguments in all directions, fumbling for them, as though someone were forcing and drawing him to it. This last day, however, which had come so unexpectedly deciding everything at once, had an almost completely mechanical effect on him, as though someone took him by the hand and started pulling with unnatural force, irresistibly, blindly, without his objections. It was as though a part of his clothing had gotten caught in the wheel of a machine, and he was being drawn into it. At first long before, in fact he had been extremely occupied by a single question; why are almost all crimes so badly concealed and so easily detected, and why do almost all criminals leave such obvious traces? He had come gradually to many different and curious conclusions, and in his opinion the chief reason lay not so much in the material impossibility of concealing the crime, as in the criminal himself. Almost every criminal is subject to a failure of will and reasoning power by a childish and phenomenal heedlessness, at the very instant when reason and caution are most essential. It was his conviction that this eclipse of reason and failure of will power attacked a man like a disease, developed gradually and reached its highest point just before the perpetration of the crime, continued with equal violence at the moment of the crime and for longer or shorter time after, according to the individual case, and then passed off like any other disease. The question whether the disease gives rise to the crime, or whether the crime, due to its own peculiar nature, is always accompanied by something like a disease, he did not yet feel able to decide. When he reached these conclusions, he decided that in his own case there could not be such morbid reversals, that his reason and will would remain unimpaired at the time of carrying out his design, for the simple reason that his design was "not a crime . . . " We will omit all the process by means of which he arrived at this last conclusion; we have run too far ahead already . . . We may add only that the practical, purely material difficulties of the affair occupied an altogether secondary position in his mind. "So long as one keeps all one will power and reason to deal with them, they will all be overcome at the time when once one has familiarized oneself with the minutest details of the business . . . " But the business wouldn't begin. His final decisions were what he continued to trust least, and when the hour struck, it all turned out quite differently, as it were accidentally and even unexpectedly. One trifling circumstance upset his calculations, before he had even left the staircase. When he reached the landlady kitchen, wide open as usual, he glanced cautiously in to see whether, in Nastasia absence, the landlady herself was there, or if not, whether the door to her own room was closed, so that she might not peep out when he went in for the axe. To his amazement, however, he suddenly saw that Nastasia was not only at home in the kitchen this time, but was even occupied there, taking linen out of a basket and hanging it on a line! Seeing him, she stopped hanging the clothes, turned to him and stared at him all the time he was passing. He turned away his eyes, and walked past as though he noticed nothing. But it was the end of everything: there was no axe! He was overwhelmed. "What made me think," he reflected, as he went under the gateway, "what made me think that she would be sure not to be at home at that moment! Why, why, why did I assume this so certainly?" He was crushed and even humiliated. He could have laughed at himself in his anger . . . A dull animal rage boiled within him. He stood hesitating in the gateway. To go into the street, to go for a walk for appearance sake was revolting; to go back to his room, even more revolting. "And what a chance I have lost forever!" he muttered, standing aimlessly in the gateway, just opposite the porter little dark room, which was also open. Suddenly he started. From the porter room, two paces away from him, something shining under the bench to the right caught his eye . . . He looked about him nobody. He approached the room on tiptoe, went down two steps into it and in a faint voice called the porter. "Yes, not at home! Somewhere near though, in the yard, for the door is wide open." He dashed to the axe (it was an axe) and pulled it out from under the bench, where it lay between two chunks of wood; at once before going out, he secured it in the noose, thrust both hands into his pockets and went out of the room; no-one had noticed him! "When reason fails, the devil helps!" he thought with a strange grin. This incident raised his spirits extraordinarily. He walked along quietly and sedately, without hurry, to avoid awakening suspicion. He scarcely looked at the passersby, even tried to escape looking at their faces at all, and to be as little noticeable as possible. Suddenly he thought of his hat. "Good heavens! I had the money the day before yesterday and did not get a cap to wear instead!" A curse rose from the bottom of his soul. Glancing out of the corner of his eye into a store, he saw by a clock on the wall that it was ten minutes past seven. He had to hurry up and at the same time to make a detour, so as to approach the house round about, from the other side . . . When he had happened to imagine all this beforehand, he had sometimes thought that he would be very much afraid. But he was not very much afraid now, not afraid at all, in fact. His mind was even occupied by irrelevant matters, but by nothing for long. As he passed the Yusupov Garden, he was deeply absorbed in considering the building of great fountains, and of their refreshing effect on the atmosphere in all the squares. Little by little he arrived at the conviction that if the summer garden were extended to all of the Mars Field, and perhaps even joined to the garden of the Mikhailovsky Palace, it would be a splendid thing and a great benefit to the town. Then he suddenly became interested in the question why in all great towns men are not simply driven by necessity, but in some peculiar way inclined to live in those parts of the town where there are no gardens nor fountains; where there is filth and stench and all sorts of nastiness. Then his own walks through the Haymarket came back to his mind, and for a moment he woke up to reality. "What nonsense!" he thought, "better think of nothing at all!" "So probably men led to execution clutch mentally at every object that meets them on the way," flashed through his mind, but simply flashed, like lightning; he himself quickly extinguished this thought . . . And by now he was near; here was the house, here was the gate. Suddenly a clock somewhere struck once. "What! can it be half-past seven? Impossible, it must be fast!" Luckily for him, everything went well again at the gates. What more, at that very moment, as though on purpose, a huge cart of hay had just driven in at the gate, completely screening him as he passed under the gateway, and the cart had scarcely had time to drive through into the yard, before he had slipped in a flash to the right. On the other side of the cart he could hear several voices shouting and quarrelling; but no-one noticed him and no-one passed him. Many windows looking into that huge quadrangular yard were open at that moment, but he did not raise his head he did not have the strength. The staircase leading to the old woman room was close by, just on the right of the gateway. He was already on the stairs . . . Catching his breath, pressing his hand against his throbbing heart, and once more feeling for the axe and setting it straight, he began softly and cautiously ascending the stairs, listening every minute. But the stairs, too, were quite deserted at that time; all the doors were shut; he met no-one after all. It is true that one apartment on the first floor was wide open and painters were at work in it, but they did not glance at him. He stood still, thought a minute and went on. "Of course it would be better if they had not been here, but . . . it two floors above them." And there was the fourth floor, here was the door, here was the apartment opposite, the empty one. On the third floor, the apartment underneath the old woman was apparently empty also; the visiting card nailed on the door had been torn off they had moved out! . . . He was out of breath. For one instant the thought flashed through his mind "Should I leave?" But he made no answer and began listening at the old woman door: a dead silence. Then he listened again on the staircase, listened long and intently . . . then looked about him for the last time, pulled himself together, drew himself up, and once more tried the axe in the noose. "Am I very pale?" he wondered. "Am I too agitated? She is mistrustful . . . Had I better wait a little longer . . . till my heart stops thumping?" But his heart would not stop thumping. On the contrary, as though on purpose, it throbbed more and more and more . . . He could stand it no longer, slowly put out his hand to the bell and rang. Half a minute later he rang again, more loudly. No answer. To go on ringing was useless and out of place. The old woman was, of course, at home, but she was suspicious and alone. He had some knowledge of her habits . . . and once more he put his ear to the door. Either his senses were peculiarly keen (which it is difficult to suppose), or the sound was really very distinct, but at any rate he suddenly heard something like the cautious touch of a hand on the lock and the rustle of a skirt at the very door. Someone was standing quietly close to the lock and just as he was doing on the outside was stealthily listening within, and also, it seemed, had her ear to the door . . . He moved a little on purpose and muttered something aloud so as not to give the impression that he was hiding, then rang a third time, but quietly, soberly and without impatience. Recalling it afterwards, that moment stood out in his mind vividly, distinctly, forever; he could not make out how he had had such cunning, especially since his mind was as it were clouded at moments and he was almost unconscious of his body . . . An instant later he heard the latch unfastened. CHAPTER SEVEN THE DOOR WAS AS before opened a tiny crack, and again two sharp and suspicious eyes stared at him out of the darkness. Then Raskolnikov lost his head and nearly made a great mistake. Fearing the old woman would be frightened by their being alone, and not hoping that the sight of him would disarm her suspicions, he took hold of the door and pulled it towards him to prevent the old woman from attempting to shut it again. Seeing this she did not pull the door back, but she did not let go the handle, either, so that he almost dragged her out with it on to the stairs. Seeing that she was standing in the doorway not allowing him to pass, he advanced straight upon her. She stepped back in alarm, tried to say something, but seemed unable to speak and stared with open eyes at him. "Good evening, Aliona Ivanovna," he began, trying to speak as casually as possible, but his voice would not obey him, it broke and shook. "I have come . . . I have brought something . . . but we'd better go over here . . . to the light . . . " And leaving her, he walked straight into the room uninvited. The old woman ran after him; her tongue was loosened. "Good heavens! What are you doing here? Who are you? What do you want?" "Why, Aliona Ivanovna, you know me . . . Raskolnikov . . . here, I brought you the pledge I promised the other day . . . " and he held out the pledge. The old woman glanced for a moment at the pledge, but at once stared in the eyes of her uninvited visitor. She looked intently, maliciously and mistrustfully. A minute passed; he even thought he saw something like a sneer in her eyes, as though she had already guessed everything. He felt that he was losing his head, that he was almost frightened, so frightened that if she were to look like that and not say a word for another half minute, he would have run away from her. "Why do you look at me as though you didn't recognize me?" he said suddenly, also with malice. "Take it if you like, if not I'll go elsewhere, I am in a hurry." He had not even thought of saying this; it was just suddenly said of itself. The old woman recovered herself, and her visitor resolute tone evidently set her at ease. "But why, sir, all of a sudden ... What is it?" she asked, looking at the pledge. "The silver cigarette case; I spoke of it last time, you know." She held out her hand. "But why are you so pale somehow? And your hands are trembling too! Have you been bathing, or what?" "Fever," he answered abruptly. "You can't help getting pale . . . if you've nothing to eat," he added, with difficulty articulating the words. His strength was failing him again. But his answer sounded like the truth; the old woman took the pledge. "What is it?" she asked once more, scanning Raskolnikov intently, and weighing the pledge in her hand. "A thing . . . cigarette case . . . Silver . . . Look at it." "It does not seem somehow like silver . . . How he has wrapped it up!" Trying to untie the string and turning to the window, to the light (all her windows were shut, in spite of the stifling heat), she left him altogether for several seconds and stood with her back to him. He unbuttoned his coat and freed the axe from the noose, but did not yet take it out altogether, simply holding it in his right hand under the coat. His hands were terribly weak, he himself felt them every moment growing more numb and more wooden. He was afraid he would let the axe slip and fall . . . Suddenly his head seemed to spin. "But what has he tied it up like this for?" the old woman cried with vexation and moved towards him. He had not an instant more to lose. He pulled the axe out completely, swung it with both arms, scarcely conscious of himself, and almost without effort, almost mechanically, brought the blunt side down on her head. He seemed not to use his own strength in this. But as soon as he had once brought the axe down, strength was born in him. The old woman was as always bareheaded. Her thin, light hair, streaked with gray, thickly smeared with grease, was plaited in a rat tail and fastened by a broken horn comb which stood out on the nape of her neck. As she was so short, the blow fell on the very top of her skull. She cried out, but very faintly, and suddenly sank all of a heap on the floor, though still managing to raise her hands to her head. In one hand she still held "the pledge." Then with all his strength he dealt her another and another blow with the blunt side, and on the same spot. The blood gushed as from an overturned glass, the body fell back. He stepped back, let it fall, and at once bent over her face; she was already dead. Her eyes seemed to be starting out of their sockets, the forehead and the whole face were drawn and contorted convulsively. He laid the axe on the ground near the dead body and felt at once in her pocket (trying to not get smeared with the streaming blood) the same right hand pocket from which she had taken the key on his last visit. He was in full possession of his faculties, free from confusion or giddiness, but his hands were still trembling. He remembered afterwards that he had been particularly cautious and careful, trying all the time not to get stained . . . He pulled out the keys at once, they were all, as before, in one bunch on a steel ring. He ran at once into the bedroom with them. It was a very small room with a whole shrine of holy images. Against the other wall stood a big bed, very clean and covered with a silk patchwork wadded quilt. Against a third wall was a chest of drawers. Strange to say, as soon as he began to fit the keys into the chest, as soon as he heard their jingling, a convulsive shudder passed over him. He suddenly felt tempted again to give it all up and go away. But that was only for an instant; it was too late to go back. He even smiled at himself, when suddenly another alarming idea occurred to his mind. He suddenly fancied that the old woman might be still alive and might recover her senses. Leaving the keys in the chest, he ran back to the body, snatched up the axe and lifted it once more over the old woman, but did not bring it down. There was no doubt that she was dead. Bending down and examining her again more closely, he saw clearly that the skull was broken and even battered in on one side. He was about to feel it with his finger, but drew back his hand and indeed it was evident without that. Meanwhile there was a whole pool of blood. All of a sudden he noticed a string on her neck; he tugged at it, but the string was strong and did not snap and besides, it was soaked with blood. He tried to pull it out from the front of the dress, but something held it and prevented its coming. In his impatience he raised the axe again to hack at the string from above, right on the body, but did not dare, and with difficulty, smearing his hands and the axe in the blood, after two minutes' hurried effort, he cut the string and took it off without touching the body with the axe; he was not mistaken it was a purse. On the string were two crosses, one of Cyprus wood and one of copper, and an enameled icon, and with them a small greasy suede purse with a steel rim and ring. The purse was stuffed very full; Raskolnikov thrust it in his pocket without looking at it, flung the crosses on the old woman chest and rushed back into the bedroom, this time taking the axe with him. He was in a terrible hurry, he snatched the keys, and began trying them again. But he was unsuccessful. They would not fit in the locks. It was not so much that his hands were shaking, but that he kept making mistakes; though he saw, for instance, that a key was not the right one and would not fit, still he tried to put it in. Suddenly he remembered and realized that the big key with the deep notches, which was hanging there with the small keys, could not possibly belong to the chest of drawers (on his last visit this had struck him), but to some strong-box, and that everything perhaps was hidden in that box. He abandoned the chest of drawers, and at once felt under the bedstead, knowing that old women usually keep boxes under their beds. And so it was; there was a good-sized box under the bed, at least a yard in length, with an arched lid covered with red leather and studded with steel nails. The notched key fit at once and unlocked it. At the top, under a white sheet, was a coat of thick red silk cloth lined with hare skin; under it was a silk dress, then a shawl and it seemed as though there was nothing below but clothes. The first thing he did was to wipe his blood-stained hands on the thick red silk. "It red, and on red blood will be less noticeable," the thought passed through his mind; then he suddenly came to. "Good God, am I going out of my mind?" he thought with terror. But no sooner did he touch the clothes than a gold watch slipped from under the fur coat. He started turning everything over. And in fact there were various articles made of gold among the clothes probably all pledges, unredeemed or waiting to be redeemed bracelets, chains, earrings, pins and such. Some were in cases, others simply wrapped in newspaper, carefully and exactly folded, in double sheets, and tied round with tape. Losing not a moment, he began stuffing the pockets of his trousers and overcoat without examining or opening the parcels and cases; but he didn't get to take many . . . He suddenly heard steps in the room where the old woman lay. He stopped short and was still as death. But all was quiet, so he must have been imagining things. All of a sudden he distinctly heard a faint cry, as though someone had uttered a low broken moan. Then again dead silence for a minute or two. He sat squatting on his heels by the box and waited holding his breath, then suddenly jumped up, seized the axe and ran out of the bedroom. In the middle of the room stood Lizaveta with a big bundle in her arms. She was gazing in stupefaction at her murdered sister, white as a sheet and seeming not to have the strength to cry out. Seeing him run out of the bedroom, she began faintly quivering all over, like a leaf, a shudder ran down her face; she lifted her hand, opened her mouth, but still did not scream. She began slowly backing away from him into the corner, staring intently, persistently at him, but still uttered no sound, as though she could not get breath to scream. He rushed at her with the axe; her mouth twitched piteously, as one sees babies' mouths, when they begin to be frightened, stare intently at what frightens them and are on the point of screaming. And this hapless Lizaveta was so simple and had been so thoroughly scared and browbeaten that she did not even raise a hand to protect her face, though that was the most necessary and natural action at the moment, for the axe was raised over her face. She only lifted her empty left hand ever so slightly, still far from her face, slowly holding it out before her as though motioning him away. The axe fell with the sharp edge just on the skull and split at one blow all the top of the head. She collapsed at once. Raskolnikov completely lost control of himself, snatched up her bundle, dropped it again and ran into the entryway. Fear gained more and more mastery over him, especially after this second, quite unexpected murder. He longed to run away from the place as fast as possible. And if at that moment he had been capable of seeing and reasoning more correctly, if he had been able to realize all the difficulties of his position, the hopelessness, the hideousness and the absurdity of it, if he could have understood how many obstacles and, perhaps, villainies he had still to overcome or to commit, to get out of that place and to make his way home, it is very possible that he would have abandoned everything, and would have gone to give himself up, and not from fear for himself, but from simple horror and loathing of what he had done. The feeling of loathing especially surged up within him and grew stronger every minute. Not for anything in the world would he now have gone to the strong-box or even into the room. But a sort of blankness, even dreaminess had begun by degrees to take possession of him; at moments he forgot himself, or rather, forgot what was of importance, and caught at trifles. Glancing, however, into the kitchen and seeing a bucket half full of water on a bench, he did realize that he needed to wash his hands and the axe. His hands were sticky with blood. He dropped the axe with the blade in the water, snatched a piece of soap that lay in a broken saucer on the window, and began washing his hands right there in the bucket. When they were clean, he took out the axe, washed the blade and spent a long time, about three minutes, washing the wood where there were spots of blood, even rubbing them with soap. Then he wiped it all with some linen that was hanging to dry on a line in the kitchen and then he spent a long time attentively examining the axe at the window. There was no trace left on it, only the wood was still damp. He carefully hung the axe in the noose under his coat. Then as far as was possible, in the dim light in the kitchen, he looked over his overcoat, his trousers and his boots. At the first glance there seemed to be nothing but stains on the boots. He wetted the rag and rubbed the boots. But he knew he was not looking thoroughly, that there might be something quite noticeable that he was overlooking. He stood in the middle of the room, lost in thought. A dark agonizing thought rose in his mind the thought that he was going mad and that at that moment he was incapable of reasoning, of protecting himself, that he ought perhaps to be doing something utterly different from what he was now doing. "Good God!" he muttered "I must run, run," and he rushed into the entryway. But here a shock of terror awaited him such as he had never of course known before. He stood and gazed and could not believe his eyes: the door, the outer door from the stairs, the one at which he had not long before waited and rung, was standing unlocked and at least six inches open. No lock, no bolt, all the time, all that time! The old woman had not shut it after him perhaps as a precaution. But, good God! Why, he had seen Lizaveta afterwards! And how could he, how could he have failed to reflect that she must have come in somehow! She could not have come through the wall! He dashed to the door and fastened the latch. "But no, the wrong thing again. I must get away, get away . . . " He unfastened the latch, opened the door and began listening on the staircase. He listened a long time. Somewhere far away, probably in the gateway, two voices were loudly and shrilly shouting, quarrelling and scolding. "What are they yelling about?" He waited patiently. At last everything was still, as though suddenly cut off; they had separated. He was meaning to go out, but suddenly, on the floor below, a door was noisily opened and someone began going downstairs humming a tune. "How is it they all make such a noise!" flashed through his mind. Once more he closed the door and waited. At last everything was still, not a soul was stirring. He was just taking a step towards the stairs when he heard fresh footsteps. The steps sounded very far off, at the very bottom of the stairs, but he remembered quite clearly and distinctly that from the first sound he began for some reason to suspect that this was someone coming there, to the fourth floor, to the old woman. Why? Were the sounds somehow peculiar, significant? The steps were heavy, even and unhurried. Now he had passed the first floor, now he was mounting higher, it was growing more and more distinct! He could hear his heavy breathing. And now the third storey had been reached. Coming here! And it seemed to him all at once that he was turned to stone, that it was like a dream in which one is being pursued, nearly caught and will be killed, and is rooted to the spot and cannot even move one arms. At last when the unknown was mounting to the fourth floor, he suddenly started, and succeeded in slipping neatly and quickly back into the flat and closing the door behind him. Then he took the hook and softly, noiselessly, fixed it in the catch. Instinct helped him. When he had done this, he crouched holding his breath, by the door. The unknown visitor was by now also at the door. They were now standing opposite one another, as he had just before been standing with the old woman, when the door divided them and he was listening. The visitor panted several times. "He must be a big, fat man," thought Raskolnikov, squeezing the axe in his hand. It seemed like a dream. The visitor took hold of the bell and rang loudly. As soon as the tin bell tinkled, Raskolnikov seemed to be aware of something moving in the room. For some seconds he listened quite seriously. The unknown rang again, waited and suddenly tugged violently and impatiently at the handle of the door. Raskolnikov gazed in horror at the hook shaking in its fastening, and in blank terror expected every minute that the fastening would be pulled out. It certainly did seem possible, so violently was he shaking it. He was tempted to hold the fastening, but he might be aware of it. Dizziness came over him again. "I shall fall down!" flashed through his mind, but the unknown began to speak and he recovered himself at once. "What up? Are they asleep or murdered? D-damn them!" he bawled in a thick voice, "Hey, Aliona Ivanovna, old witch! Lizaveta Ivanovna, hey, my beauty! Open the door! Damn them! Are they asleep or what?" And again, enraged, he tugged with all his might a dozen times at the bell. He must certainly be a man of authority and an intimate acquaintance. At this moment light hurried steps were heard not far off, on the stairs. Someone else was approaching. Raskolnikov had not heard them at first. "You don't say there no-one at home," the newcomer cried in a cheerful, ringing voice, addressing the first visitor, who still went on pulling the bell. "Good evening, Koch." "From his voice he must be quite young," thought Raskolnikov. "Who the hell can tell? I've almost broken the lock," answered Koch. "But how do you come to know me?" "Why! The day before yesterday I beat you three times in a row at billiards at Gambrinus'." "Oh!" "So they are not at home? That strange. It pretty stupid though. Where could the old woman have gone? I've come on business." "Yes; and I have business with her, too." "Well, what can we do? Go back, I suppose! And I was hoping to get some money!" cried the young man. "We must give up, of course, but what did she fix this time for? The old witch fixed the time for me to come herself. It out of my way. And where the devil she can have got to, I can't make out. She sits here from year end to year end, the old hag; her legs are bad and yet here all of a sudden she is out for a walk!" "Hadn't we better ask the porter?" "What?" "Where she gone and when she'll be back." "Hm . . . Damn it all! . . . We might ask . . . But you know she never does go anywhere." And he once more tugged at the door-handle. "Damn it all. There nothing to be done, we must go!" "Stay!" cried the young man suddenly. "Do you see how the door shakes if you pull it?" "Well?" "That shows it not locked, but fastened with the hook! Do you hear how the hook clanks?" "Well?" "Why, don't you see? That proves that one of them is at home. If they were all out, they would have locked the door from the outside with the key and not with the hook from inside. There, do you hear how the hook is clanking? To fasten the hook on the inside they must be at home, don't you see. So there they are sitting inside and aren't opening the door!" "Well! And so they must be!" cried Koch, astonished. "What are they doing in there!" And he began furiously shaking the door. "Stay!" cried the young man again. "Don't pull at it! There must be something wrong . . . Here, you've been ringing and pulling at the door and still they don't open! So either they've both fainted or . . . " "What?" "I tell you what. Let go fetch the porter, let him wake them up." "All right." Both of them went down. "Stop. You stay here while I run down for the porter." "What for?" "Well, you'd better." "All right." "I'm studying law, you see! It evident, e-vi-dent there something wrong here!" the young man cried hotly, and he ran downstairs. Koch remained. Once more he softly touched the bell which gave one tinkle, then gently, as though reflecting and looking about him, began touching the door-handle pulling it and letting it go to make sure once more that it was only fastened by the hook. Then puffing and panting he bent down and began looking at the keyhole; but the key was in the lock on the inside and so nothing could be seen. Raskolnikov stood keeping tight hold of the axe. He was in a sort of delirium. He was even getting ready to fight when they came in. While they were knocking and talking together, the idea several times occurred to him to end it all at once and shout to them through the door. Now and then he was tempted to swear at them, to jeer at them, while they could not open the door! "Just hurry up!" was the thought that flashed through his mind. "But what the devil is he about? . . . " Time was passing, one minute, and another no-one came. Koch began to be restless. "What the hell?" he cried suddenly and in impatience deserting his sentry duty, he, too, went down, hurrying and thumping his heavy boots on the stairs. The steps died away. "God! What should I do?" Raskolnikov unfastened the hook, opened the door there was no sound. Abruptly, without any thought at all, he went out, closing the door as thoroughly as he could, and went downstairs. He had gone down three flights when he suddenly heard a loud voice below where could he go! There was nowhere to hide. He was just going back to the flat. "Hey there! Catch the brute!" Somebody dashed out of a flat below, shouting, and rather fell than ran down the stairs, bawling at the top of his voice. "Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Damn him!" The shout ended in a shriek; the last sounds came from the yard; all was still. But at the same instant several men talking loud and fast began noisily mounting the stairs. There were three or four of them. He distinguished the ringing voice of the young man. "Them!" Filled with despair he went straight to meet them, feeling "come what may!" If they stopped him all was lost; if they let him pass all was lost too; they would remember him. They were approaching; they were only a flight away from him and, suddenly, salvation! A few steps from him on the right there was an empty flat with the door wide open, the flat on the second floor where the painters had been at work, and which, as though for his benefit, they had just left. It was they, no doubt, who had just run down, shouting. The floor had only just been painted, in the middle of the room stood a pail and a broken pot with paint and brushes. In one instant he had whisked in at the open door and hidden behind the wall and just in the nick of time; they had already reached the landing. Then they turned and went on up to the fourth floor, talking loudly. He waited, went out on tiptoe and ran down the stairs. No-one was on the stairs or in the gateway. He passed quickly through the gateway and turned to the left into the street. He knew, he knew perfectly well that at that moment they were at the flat, that they were greatly astonished at finding it unlocked, as the door had just been fastened, that by now they were looking at the bodies, that before another minute had passed they would guess and eventually realize that the murderer had just been there, and had succeeded in hiding somewhere, slipping by them and escaping. They would guess most likely that he had been in the empty flat while they were going upstairs. And meanwhile he dared not speed up too much, though the next turning was still nearly a hundred yards away. "Should he slip through some gateway and wait somewhere in an unknown street? No, hopeless! Should he fling away the axe? Should he take a cab? Hopeless, hopeless!" At last he reached the turning. He turned down it more dead than alive. Here he was halfway to safety, and here he understood it; it was less risky because there was a great crowd of people, and he was lost in it like a grain of sand. But everything he had suffered had so weakened him that he could scarcely move. Perspiration ran down him in drops, his neck was all wet. "My God, he been at it!" someone shouted at him when he came out on the canal bank. He was only dimly conscious of himself now, and the farther he went the worse it was. He remembered, however, that when he came out onto the canal bank, he was alarmed at finding few people there and at being more conspicuous, and he had thought of turning back. Though he was almost falling from fatigue, he went a long way round so as to get home from a different direction. He was not fully conscious when he passed through the gateway of his house; he was already on the staircase before he remembered the axe. And yet he had a very grave problem before him, to put it back and to escape observation as far as possible in doing so. He was of course incapable of reflecting that it might perhaps be far better not to put the axe back at all, but to drop it later on in somebody yard. But it all turned out beautifully: the door of the porter room was closed but not locked, so it seemed most likely that the porter was at home. But he had lost his powers of reflection so completely that he walked straight to the door and opened it. If the porter had asked him "What do you want?" he would perhaps have simply handed him the axe. But again the porter was not at home, and he succeeded in putting the axe back under the bench, and even covering it with the chunk of wood just as before. He met no-one, not a soul, on the way to his room; the landlady door was shut. When he was in his room, he flung himself on the sofa just as he was he did not sleep, but sank into blank forgetfulness. If anyone had come into his room then, he would have jumped up at once and screamed. Scraps and shreds of thoughts were simply swarming in his brain, but he could not catch at one, he could not rest on one, in spite of all his efforts ... PART TWO CHAPTER ONE HE LAY LIKE THAT for a very long time. Now and then he seemed to wake up, and at such moments he became conscious that it was far into the night, but it did not occur to him to get up. At last he noticed that it was already dawn. He was lying on his back, still dazed from his recent oblivion. Fearful, despairing cries rose shrilly from the street, sounds which he heard every night under his window after two o'clock; now they woke him up. "Ah! The drunkards are coming out of the taverns," he thought, "it past two o'clock," and at once he leaped up, as though someone had pulled him from the sofa. "What! Past two o'clock!" He sat down on the sofa and instantly remembered everything! All at once, in a flash, he remembered everything. At first he thought he was going mad. A dreadful chill came over him; but the chill was from the fever that had begun long before in his sleep. Now he suddenly started shivering violently, so that his teeth chattered and all his limbs were shaking. He opened the door and began listening; everyone in the house was asleep. With amazement he gazed at himself and everything in the room around him, wondering how he could have come in the night before without fastening the door and have flung himself on the sofa without undressing, without even taking his hat off. It had fallen off and was lying on the floor near his pillow. "If someone had come in, what would they have thought? That I'm drunk but . . . " He rushed to the window. There was enough light for him to begin hurriedly checking himself all over from head to foot, all his clothes: were there no traces? But there was no use doing it like that; shivering with cold, he began taking off everything and looking himself over again. He turned everything over to the last threads and rags and, mistrusting himself, went through his search three times. But there seemed to be nothing, no trace, except in one place, where some thick drops of congealed blood were clinging to the frayed edge of his trousers. He picked up a big pocket knife and cut off the frayed threads. There seemed to be nothing more. Suddenly he remembered that the purse and the things he had taken out of the old woman box were still in his pockets! He had not thought until then of taking them out and hiding them! He had not even thought of them while he was examining his clothes! What next? Instantly he rushed to take them out and fling them on the table. When he had pulled out everything and turned the pocket inside out to be sure there was nothing left, he carried the whole heap to the corner. The paper had come off the bottom of the wall and hung there in tatters. He began stuffing all the things into the hole under the paper. "They're in! All out of sight, and the purse too!" he thought gleefully, getting up and gazing blankly at the hole which bulged out more than ever. Suddenly he shuddered all over with horror. "My God!" he whispered in despair. "What the matter with me? Are they hidden? Is that the way to hide things?" He had not counted on having trinkets to hide. He had only thought of money, and so he had not prepared a hiding-place. "But now, now, what am I pleased about?" he thought, "Is that hiding things? My reason deserting me it as simple as that!" He sat down on the sofa in exhaustion and was at once shaken by another unbearable fit of shivering. Mechanically he drew from a chair beside him his old student winter coat, which was still warm though almost in rags, covered himself up with it and once more sank into drowsiness and delirium. He lost consciousness. Not more than five minutes had passed when he jumped up a second time, and at once pounced in a frenzy on his clothes again. "How could I go to sleep again with nothing done? Yes, yes; I haven't taken the noose off the armhole! I forgot it, forgot a thing like that! Such a piece of evidence!" He pulled off the noose, hurriedly cut it to pieces and threw the bits among his linen under the pillow. "Pieces of torn linen couldn't arouse suspicion, whatever happened; I think not, I think not anyway!" he repeated, standing in the middle of the room, and with painful concentration he started gazing about him again, at the floor and everywhere, trying to make sure he had not forgotten anything. The conviction that all his faculties were failing him, even his memory and his most basic powers of reflection, began to be an insufferable torture. "Surely it isn't beginning already? Surely it isn't my punishment coming upon me? It is!" The frayed rags he had cut off his trousers were actually lying on the floor in the middle of the room, where anyone coming in would see them! "What is the matter with me!" he cried again, distraught. Then a strange idea entered his head; that, perhaps, all his clothes were covered with blood, that, perhaps, there were many stains, but that he did not see them, did not notice them because his perceptions were failing, were going to pieces . . . his reason was clouded . . . Suddenly he remembered that there had been blood on the purse too. "Ah! Then there must be blood on the pocket too, because I put the wet purse in my pocket!" In a flash he had turned the pocket inside out and, yes! There were traces, stains on the lining of the pocket! "So my reason has not quite deserted me, so I still have some kind of memory and common sense, since I guessed it myself," he thought triumphantly, with a deep sigh of relief. "It simply the weakness of fever, a moment delirium," and he tore the whole lining out of the left pocket of his trousers. At that instant the sunlight fell on his left boot; on the sock which poked out from the boot he thought there were traces! He flung off his boots "traces! The tip of the sock was soaked with blood"; he must have unwarily stepped into that pool . . . "But what am I to do with this now? Where am I to put the sock and rags and pocket?" He gathered them all up in his hands and stood in the middle of the room. "In the stove? But they would search the stove first. Burn them? But what can I burn them with? There aren't even any matches. No, better go out and throw it all away somewhere. Yes, better throw it away," he repeated, sitting down on the sofa again, "and straightaway, immediately, without delay . . . " But his head sank on the pillow instead. Again the unbearable icy shivering came over him; again he drew his coat over him. And for a long while, for some hours, he was haunted by the impulse to "go off somewhere at once, this minute, and fling it all away, just so it out of sight and done with, at once, at once!" Several times he tried to rise from the sofa but could not. He was properly woken at last by a violent knocking on his door. "Open the door, are you dead or alive? He keeps sleeping here!" shouted Nastasia, banging with her fist on the door. "For days on end he been snoring here like a dog! A dog he is too. Open it, come on! It past ten." "Maybe he not at home," said a man voice. "Ha! That the porter voice . . . What does he want?" He jumped up and sat on the sofa. Even the beating of his heart was painful. "Then who can have latched the door?" retorted Nastasia. "He taken to bolting himself in! As if he were worth stealing! Open it, you idiot, wake up!" "What do they want? Why the porter? They've found me out. Resist or open? Come what may! . . . " He half rose, stooped forward and unlatched the door. His room was so small that he could undo the latch without leaving the bed. Yes; the porter and Nastasia were standing there. Nastasia stared at him in a strange way. He glanced with a defiant and desperate air at the porter, who without a word held out a gray folded paper sealed with wax. "A notice from the office," he announced, as he gave him the paper. "From what office?" "A summons to the police office, of course. You know which office." "To the police? . . . What for? . . . " "How can I tell? You're sent for, so you go." The man looked at him attentively, looked round the room and turned to go away. "He seriously ill!" observed Nastasia, not taking her eyes off him. The porter turned his head for a moment. "He been in a fever since yesterday," she added. Raskolnikov made no response and held the paper in his hands, without opening it. "Don't get up then," Nastasia went on compassionately, seeing that he was letting his feet down from the sofa. "You're ill, so don't go; there no hurry. What have you got there?" He looked; in his right hand he held the shreds he had cut from his trousers, the sock, and the rags of the pocket. So he had been asleep with them in his hand. When he reflected on it afterwards, he remembered that, half waking up in his fever, he had grasped all this tightly in his hand and fallen asleep again. "Look at the rags he collected and sleeps with, as though he got treasure in his hands . . . " And Nastasia went off into her hysterical giggle. Instantly he thrust them all under his overcoat and fixed his eyes intently upon her. Far as he was from being capable of rational reflection at that moment, he felt that no-one would behave like that with a person who was going to be arrested. "But . . . the police?" "You'd better have some tea! Yes? I'll bring it, there some left." "No . . . I'm going; I'll go at once," he muttered, getting on to his feet. "Why, you'll never get downstairs!" "Yes, I'll go." "As you wish." She followed the porter out. At once he rushed to the light to examine the sock and the rags. "There are stains, but not very noticeable; all covered with dirt, and rubbed and discolored. No-one who wasn't suspicious could distinguish anything. Nastasia couldn't have noticed from a distance, thank God!" Then with a tremor he broke the seal of the notice and began reading; he spent a long time reading it before he understood. It was an ordinary summons from the district police station to appear that day at half past nine at the office of the district superintendent. "But when has such a thing happened? I never have anything to do with the police! And why just today?" he thought in agonizing bewilderment. "Good God, just get it over with as soon as possible!" He was flinging himself on his knees to pray, but broke into laughter not at the idea of prayer, but at himself. He began to dress himself hurriedly. "If I'm lost, I'm lost, I don't care! Shall I put the sock on?" he suddenly wondered. "It will get even dustier and the traces will be gone." But no sooner had he put it on than he pulled it off again in loathing and horror. He pulled it off, but reflecting that he had no other socks, he picked it up and put it on again and again he laughed. "That all conventional, that all relative, just a way of looking at it," he thought in a flash, but only on the surface of his mind, while he was shuddering all over. "There, I've got it on! I've actually managed to get it on!" But his laughter was quickly followed by despair. "No, it too much for me . . . " he thought. His legs shook. "Fear," he muttered. His head swam and ached with fever. "It a trick! They want to decoy me and confuse me about everything," he mused, as he went out onto the stairs. "The worst of it is I'm almost light-headed . . . I may blurt out something stupid . . . " On the stairs he remembered that he was leaving all the things just as they were in the hole in the wall, "and, very likely, it on purpose to search when I'm out," he thought, and stopped short. But he was possessed by such despair, such cynicism of misery, if that is what it could be called, that with a wave of his hand he went on. "Just to get it over with!" In the street the heat was unbearable again; not a drop of rain had fallen. Again, dust, bricks and mortar, again, the stench from the stores and taverns, again the drunken men, the Finnish street-sellers and half-broken-down cabs. The sun shone straight in his eyes, so that it hurt him to look out of them, and he felt his head spinning as a person in a fever is apt to feel when they come out into the street on a bright sunny day. When he reached the turning into the street, in agonizing terror he looked down it . . . at the house . . . and at once turned his eyes away. "If they question me, perhaps I'll just tell them everything," he thought, as he neared the police station. The police station was about a quarter of a mile off. It had recently been moved to new rooms on the fourth floor of a new house. He had been once for a moment in the old office, but long ago. Turning in at the gateway, he saw on the right a flight of stairs which a peasant was mounting with a book in his hand. "A house-porter, no doubt; so then, the office is here," and he began climbing the stairs in case. He did not want to ask anyone any questions. "I'll go in, fall on my knees, and confess everything . . . " he thought as he reached the fourth floor. The staircase was steep, narrow and all sloppy with dirty water. The kitchens of the apartments opened onto the stairs and stood open almost the whole day. There was a terrible smell and heat. The staircase was crowded with porters going up and down with their books under their arms, policemen, and people of all sorts and both sexes. The door of the office, too, stood wide open. Peasants stood waiting inside. There, too, the heat was stifling and there was a sickening smell of fresh paint and stale oil from the newly decorated rooms. After waiting a little, he decided to move forward into the next room. All the rooms were small and low-ceilinged. A terrible impatience drew him on and on. No-one paid attention to him. In the second room some clerks sat writing, dressed hardly better than he was a rather strange-looking set. He went up to one of them. "What is it?" He showed him the notice he had received. "You're a student?" the man asked, glancing at the notice. "Yes, a former student." The clerk looked at him, but without any interest. He was a particularly untidy person with a fixed expression in his eye. "There would be no use trying to get anything out of him because he has no interest in anything," thought Raskolnikov. "Go in there to the head clerk," said the clerk, pointing towards the furthest room. He went into the room, the fourth in order; it was a small room and packed full of people, who were rather better dressed than in the outer rooms. Among them were two ladies. One, dressed in cheap mourning clothes, sat at the table opposite the chief clerk, writing something at his dictation. The other, a very stout, buxom woman with a purplish-red, blotchy face, excessively smartly dressed with a brooch on her bosom as big as a saucer, was standing on one side, apparently waiting for something. Raskolnikov thrust his notice at the head clerk. The latter glanced at it, said, "Wait a minute," and went on attending to the lady in mourning. He breathed more freely. "It can't be that!" By degrees he began to regain confidence, he kept urging himself to have courage and be calm. "Some foolishness, some insignificant carelessness, and I may betray myself! Hm . . . it a pity there no air here," he added, "it stifling . . . It makes your head dizzier than ever . . . and your mind too . . . " He was conscious of a terrible inner turmoil. He was afraid of losing his self-control; he tried to catch at something and fix his mind on it, something entirely irrelevant, but he could not succeed at all. Yet the head clerk greatly interested him; he kept hoping to see through him and guess something from his face. He was a very young man, about twenty-two, with a dark mobile face that looked older than its years. He was fashionably dressed and effeminate, with his hair parted in the middle, well combed and greased, and wore a number of rings on his well-scrubbed fingers and a gold chain on his waistcoat. He said a couple of words in French to a foreigner who was in the room and said them fairly correctly. "Luise Ivanovna, you can sit down," he said casually to the cheerfully dressed, purple-faced lady, who was still standing as if she were not venturing to sit down, though there was a chair beside her. "Ich danke,"17 said the latter, and softly, with a rustle of silk she sank into the chair. Her light blue dress trimmed with white lace floated about the table like an air-balloon and filled almost half the room. She smelt of scent. But she was obviously embarrassed at filling half the room and smelling so strongly of scent; and though her smile was impudent as well as cringing, it betrayed evident uneasiness. The lady in mourning had done at last and got up. All at once, with some noise, an officer walked in very jauntily, with a peculiar swing of his shoulders at each step. He tossed his cockaded cap on the table and sat down in an easy-chair. The small lady really skipped from her seat when she saw him, and started curtsying in a sort of ecstasy; but the officer did not take the slightest notice of her, and she did not venture to sit down again in his presence. He was the assistant superintendent. He had a reddish moustache that stood out horizontally on each side of his face, with extremely small features that expressed nothing much except insolence. He looked sideways and rather indignantly at Raskolnikov; he was so badly dressed, and in spite of his humiliating position, his bearing was by no means in keeping with his clothes. Raskolnikov had unwarily fixed a very long and direct look at him, and he felt offended. "What do you want?" he shouted, apparently astonished that such a ragged person was not annihilated by the majesty of his gaze. "I was summoned . . . by a notice . . . " Raskolnikov faltered. "For the recovery of money due, from the student," the head clerk interfered hurriedly, tearing himself from his papers. "Here!" and he flung Raskolnikov a document and pointed out the place. "Read that!" "Money? What money?" thought Raskolnikov, "but . . . then . . . it definitely not that." And he trembled with joy. He felt sudden intense indescribable relief. A load was lifted from his back. "And what time were you asked to appear, sir?" shouted the assistant superintendent, seeming for some unknown reason to be more and more aggrieved. "You were told to come at nine, and now it twelve!" "The notice was only brought to me a quarter of an hour ago," Raskolnikov answered loudly over his shoulder. To his own surprise, he too grew suddenly angry and found a certain pleasure in it. "And it enough that I've come here ill with fever." "Please stop shouting!" "I'm not shouting, I'm speaking very quietly, it you who are shouting at me. I'm a student: I don't let anyone shout at me." The assistant superintendent was so furious that for the first minute he could only splutter inarticulately. He leaped up from his seat. "Be silent! You are in a government office. Don't be impudent, sir!" "You're in a government office, too," cried Raskolnikov, "and you're smoking a cigarette as well as shouting, so you are showing disrespect to all of us." He felt an indescribable satisfaction at having said this. The head clerk looked at him with a smile. The angry assistant superintendent was obviously confused. "That not your business!" he shouted at last with unnatural loudness. "Kindly make the declaration demanded of you. Show him, Alexander Grigorievich. There is a complaint against you! You don't pay your debts! Who the disrespectful one around here!" But Raskolnikov was not listening now; he had eagerly clutched at the paper in order to find an explanation. He read it once, and a second time, and still did not understand. "What is this?" he asked the head clerk. "It is for the recovery of money on an I.O.U., a writ. You must either pay it, with all expenses, costs and so on, or give a written declaration as to when you can pay it and at the same time an undertaking not to leave the capital without payment, nor to sell or conceal your property. The creditor is at liberty to sell your property, and proceed against you according to the law." "But I . . . am not in debt to anyone!" "That not our business. Here, an I.O.U. for a hundred and fifteen rubles, legally attested, and due for payment, has been brought us for recovery, given by you to the widow of the assessor Zarnitsyn, nine months ago, and paid by the widow Zarnitsyn to a Mr. Chebarov. That is why we have summoned you." "But she is my landlady!" "And what if she is your landlady?" The head clerk looked at him with a patronizing smile of compassion, and at the same time with a certain triumph, like he would at a novice under fire for the first time as though he was about to say: "Well, how do you feel now?" But what did he care now for an I.O.U., for a writ of recovery! Was that worth worrying about now, was it even worth his attention! He stood, he read, he listened, he answered, he even asked questions himself, but he did it all mechanically. The triumphant sense of security, of deliverance from overwhelming danger that was what filled his whole soul that moment without thought for the future, without analysis, without suppositions or surmises, without doubts and without questioning. It was an instant of full, direct, purely instinctive joy. But at that very moment something like a thunderstorm took place in the office. The assistant superintendent, still shaken by Raskolnikov disrespect, still fuming and obviously anxious to keep up his wounded dignity, pounced on the unfortunate lady, who had been gazing at him ever since he came in with an exceedingly silly smile. "And you!" he shouted suddenly at the top of his voice. (The lady in mourning had left the office.) "What was going on at your house last night? Eh! Yet another scandal, you're a disgrace to the whole street. Fighting and drinking again. Do you want to end up in jail? I have warned you ten times over that I would not let you off the eleventh! And here you are again, again, you . . . you! . . . " The paper fell out of Raskolnikov hands, and he looked wildly at the smart lady who was being so unceremoniously treated. But he soon saw what it meant, and at once began to find some real amusement in the scandal. He listened with such pleasure that he longed to laugh and laugh . . . all his nerves were on edge. "Ilia Petrovich!" the head clerk began anxiously, but stopped short, for he knew from experience that the enraged assistant could not be stopped except by force. As for the smart lady, at first she trembled before the storm. But strange to say, the more numerous and violent the terms of abuse became, the more likeable she looked, and the more seductive the smiles she lavished on the terrible assistant. She moved uneasily, and curtsied incessantly, waiting impatiently for a chance of putting in her word; and at last she found it. "There was no noise or fighting in my house, Mr. Captain," she pattered all at once, like peas dropping, speaking Russian confidently, though with a strong German accent, "and no scandal, and his honor came drunk, and it the whole truth I am telling, Mr. Captain, and I am not to blame . . . Mine is an honorable house, Mr. Captain, and honorable behavior, Mr. Captain, and I always, always dislike any scandal myself. But he came so tipsy, and asked for three bottles again, and then he lifted up one leg, and began playing the piano with one foot, and that is not at all right in an honorable house, and he ganz18 broke the piano, and it was very bad manners indeed and I said so. And he picked up a bottle and began hitting everyone with it. And then I called the porter, and Karl came, and he took Karl and hit him in the eye; and he hit Henriette in the eye, too, and gave me five slaps on the cheek. And it was so ungentlemanly in an honorable house, Mr. Captain, and I screamed. And he opened the window over the canal, and stood in the window, squealing like a little pig; it was a disgrace. The idea of squealing like a little pig at the window into the street! And Karl pulled him away from the window by his coat, and it is true, Mr. Captain, he tore sein Rock.19 And then he shouted that man muss pay him20 fifteen rubles damages. And I did pay him, Mr. Captain, five rubles for sein Rock. And he is an ungentlemanly visitor and caused all the scandal. ?ÄòI will show you up,' he said, ?Äòbecause I can write to all the papers about you.' " "So he was an author?" "Yes, Mr. Captain, and what an ungentlemanly visitor in an honorable house . . . " "Now then! Enough! I have told you already . . . " "Ilia Petrovich!" the head clerk repeated significantly. The assistant glanced rapidly at him; the head clerk shook his head slightly. " . . . So I'm telling you again, Mrs. Luise Ivanovna, and I'm telling you for the last time," the assistant went on. "If there is one more scandal in your honorable house, I will put you in the lock-up, as it is called in polite society. Do you hear? So a literary man, an author took five rubles for his coat-tail in an ?Äòhonorable house'? A nice lot, these authors!" And he cast a contemptuous glance at Raskolnikov. "There was a scandal the other day in a restaurant, too. An author had eaten his dinner and would not pay; ?ÄòI'll write a satire about you,' he says. And there was another of them on a steamer last week who used the most disgraceful language to the respectable family of a civil councilor, his wife and daughter. And there was one of them turned out of a confectioner store the other day. They are like that, authors, literary men, students, town-criers . . . Pah! You get along! I shall look in on you myself one day. Then you had better be careful! Do you hear?" With hasty submissiveness, Luise Ivanovna started curtsying to everyone, and then curtsied herself to the door. But at the door, she stumbled backwards against a good-looking officer with a fresh, open face and splendid thick fair whiskers. This was the superintendent of the district himself, Nikodim Fomich. Luise Ivanovna made haste to curtsy almost to the ground, and with dainty little steps, she fluttered out of the office. "Again thunder and lightning a hurricane!" said Nikodim Fomich to Ilia Petrovich in a civil and friendly tone. "You are aroused again, you are fuming again! I heard it on the stairs!" "Well, what it matter!" Ilia Petrovich drawled with gentlemanly indifference; and he walked with some papers to another table, with a jaunty swing of his shoulders at each step. "Here, if you will glance over this: an author, or a student, has been one at least, does not pay his debts, has given an I.O.U., won't clear out of his room, and complaints are constantly being lodged against him, and here he has made a protest against my smoking in his presence! He behaves like a hooligan himself; just take a look. That him over there: attractive, isn't he?" "Poverty is not a vice, my friend, but we know you go off like powder, you can't bear any disagreements, you probably took offense at something and went too far yourself," continued Nikodim Fomich, turning affably to Raskolnikov. "But you were wrong there; he is a wonderful person, I assure you, but explosive, explosive! He gets hot, fires up, boils over, and no stopping him! And then it all over! And at the bottom he a heart of gold! His nickname in the regiment was the Explosive Lieutenant . . . " "And what a regiment it was, too," cried Ilia Petrovich, happy with all this friendly chat, although he was still sulking. All at once, Raskolnikov had a desire to say something exceptionally pleasant to them all. "Excuse me, Captain," he began easily, suddenly addressing Nikodim Fomich, "look at it from my point of view . . . I apologize if I have been badly behaved. I am a poor student, sick and shattered" ("shattered" was the word he used) "by poverty. I am not studying, because I cannot keep myself now, but I shall get money . . . I have a mother and sister in the province of X. They will send it to me, and I will pay. My landlady is a good-hearted woman, but she is so angry at my having lost my lessons, and not paying her for the last four months, that she does not even send up my dinner . . . and I don't understand this I.O.U. at all. She is asking me to pay her what is on this I.O.U. How can I pay her? Judge for yourselves! . . . " "But that is not our business, you know," the head clerk was observing. "Yes, yes. I entirely agree with you. But let me explain . . . " Raskolnikov put in again, still addressing Nikodim Fomich, but trying his best to address Ilia Petrovich as well, though the latter persistently appeared to be rummaging among his papers and to be contemptuously oblivious of him. "Allow me to explain that I have been living with her for nearly three years and at first . . . at first . . . why should I not confess it, at the very beginning I promised to marry her daughter, it was a verbal promise, freely given . . . she was a girl . . . indeed, I liked her, though I was not in love with her . . . a youthful affair, in fact . . . that is, I mean to say, that my landlady gave me credit freely in those days, and I led a life of . . . I paid very little attention . . . " "Nobody asks you for these personal details, sir, we can't waste our time on this," Ilia Petrovich interrupted roughly and with a note of triumph; but Raskolnikov stopped him hotly, though he suddenly found it extremely difficult to speak. "But excuse me, excuse me. It is for me to explain . . . how it all happened . . . In my turn . . . though I agree with you . . . it is unnecessary. But a year ago, the girl died of typhus. I remained lodging there as before, and when my landlady moved into her present quarters, she said to me . . . and in a friendly way . . . that she had complete trust in me, but still, would I not give her an I.O.U. for one hundred and fifteen rubles, all the debt I owed her? She said if only I gave her that, she would trust me again, as much as I liked, and that she would never, never those were her own words make use of that I.O.U. until I could pay it myself . . . and now, when I have lost my lessons and have nothing to eat, she takes action against me. What am I to say to that?" "All these affecting details are no business of ours," Ilia Petrovich interrupted rudely. "You must give a written undertaking but as for your love affairs and all these tragic events, we have nothing to do with that." "Come now . . . you are harsh," muttered Nikodim Fomich, sitting down at the table and also beginning to write. He looked a little ashamed. "Write!" said the head clerk to Raskolnikov. "Write what?" the latter asked, gruffly. "I will dictate to you." Raskolnikov thought that the head clerk treated him more casually and contemptuously after his speech, but strangely enough he suddenly felt completely indifferent to anyone opinion, and this revulsion took place in a flash, in an instant. If he had cared to think a little, he would have been amazed, in fact, that he could have talked to them like that a minute before, forcing his feelings on them. And where had those feelings come from? Now if the whole room had been filled, not with police officers, but with those nearest and dearest to him, he would not have found one human word for them, so empty was his heart. A gloomy sensation of agonizing, eternal solitude and remoteness took conscious form in his soul. It was not the meanness of his sentimental outburst before Ilia Petrovich nor the meanness of the latter triumph over him that had caused this sudden revulsion in his heart. What should he do now with his own baseness, with all these petty vanities, officers, German women, debts, police offices? If he had been sentenced to be burnt at that moment, he would not have stirred, would hardly have heard the sentence to the end. Something was happening to him, something entirely new, sudden and unknown. It was not that he understood, but he felt clearly with all the intensity of sensation that he could no longer appeal to these people in the police office with sentimental outbursts, or with anything whatsoever; and that if they had been his own brothers and sisters and not police officers, it would have been utterly out of the question to appeal to them in any circumstance of life. He had never experienced such a strange and awful sensation. And what was most agonizing was that it was more a sensation than a conception or idea, a direct sensation, the most agonizing of all the sensations he had known in his life. The head clerk began dictating to him the usual form of declaration, that he could not pay, that he undertook to do so at a future date, that he would not leave the town or sell his property, and so on. "But you can't write, you can hardly hold the pen," observed the head clerk, looking with curiosity at Raskolnikov. "Are you ill?" "Yes, I am dizzy. Go on!" "That all. Sign it." The head clerk took the paper, and turned to attend to the others. Raskolnikov gave back the pen; but instead of getting up and going away, he put his elbows on the table and pressed his head in his hands. He felt as if a nail were being driven into his skull. A strange idea suddenly occurred to him to get up at once, to go up to Nikodim Fomich, and tell him everything that had happened yesterday, and then to go with him to his lodgings and to show him the things in the hole in the corner. The impulse was so strong that he got up from his seat to carry it out. "Hadn't I better think a minute?" flashed through his mind. "No, better cast off the burden without thinking." But all at once he stood still, rooted to the spot. Nikodim Fomich was talking eagerly to Ilia Petrovich, and the words reached him: "It impossible, they'll both be released. To begin with, the whole story contradicts itself. Why should they have called the porter, if it had been their doing? To inform against themselves? Or as a blind? No, that would be too cunning! Besides, Pestriakov, the student, was seen at the gate by both the porters and a woman as he went in. He was walking with three friends, who left him only at the gate, and he asked the porters to direct him, in the presence of his friends. Now, would he have asked his way if he had been going with a purpose like that? As for Koch, he spent half an hour at the silver-smith below, before he went up to the old woman, and he left him at exactly a quarter to eight. Now just consider . . . " "But, excuse me, how do you explain this contradiction? They state themselves that they knocked and the door was locked; yet three minutes later when they went up with the porter, it turned out the door was unfastened." "That just it; the murderer must have been there and bolted himself in; and they'd have caught him for certain if Koch had not been an ass and gone to look for the porter too. He must have seized the interval to get downstairs and slip by them somehow. Koch keeps crossing himself and saying: "If I had been there, he would have jumped out and killed me with his axe.' He is going to have a thanks-giving service ha, ha!" "And no-one saw the murderer?" "They might well have not seen him; the house is a real Noah Ark," said the head clerk, who was listening. "It clear, it clear," Nikodim Fomich repeated hotly. "No, it is anything but clear," Ilia Petrovich maintained. Raskolnikov picked up his hat and walked towards the door, but he did not reach it . . . When he regained consciousness, he found himself sitting in a chair, supported by someone on the right, while someone else was standing on the left, holding a yellowish glass filled with yellow water, and Nikodim Fomich standing before him, looking intently at him. He got up from the chair. "What this? Are you ill?" Nikodim Fomich asked, rather sharply. "He could hardly hold his pen when he was signing," said the head clerk, settling back in his place and taking up his work again. "Have you been ill long?" cried Ilia Petrovich from his place, where he, too, was looking through papers. He had, of course, come to look at the sick man when he fainted, but retired at once when he recovered. "Since yesterday," muttered Raskolnikov in reply. "Did you go out yesterday?" "Yes." "Though you were ill?" "Yes." "At what time?" "About seven." "And where did you go, may I ask?" "Along the street." "Short and clear." Raskolnikov, white as a handkerchief, had answered sharply, jerkily, without dropping his black feverish eyes before Ilia Petrovich stare. "He can scarcely stand upright. And you . . . " Nikodim Fomich was beginning. "No matter," Ilia Petrovich pronounced in a strange voice. Nikodim Fomich would have made some further protest, but glancing at the head clerk who was looking very hard at him, he did not speak. There was a strange silence suddenly. "Very well, then," concluded Ilia Petrovich, "we will not keep you." Raskolnikov went out. He caught the sound of eager conversation on his departure, and above the rest rose the questioning voice of Nikodim Fomich. In the street, his faintness passed completely. "A search there will be a search at once," he repeated to himself, hurrying home. "The brutes! They suspect me." His former terror completely mastered him once more. CHAPTER TWO "AND WHAT IF THERE has been a search already? What if I find them in my room?" But here was his room. Nothing and no-one in it. No-one had peeped in. Even Nastasia had not touched it. But, Lord! how could he have left all those things in the hole? He rushed to the corner, slipped his hand under the paper, pulled the things out and lined his pockets with them. There were eight articles in all, two little boxes with earrings or something of the sort he hardly looked to see then four small leather cases. There was a chain, too, just wrapped in newspaper and something else in newspaper that looked like a decoration . . . He put them all in the different pockets of his overcoat and the remaining pocket of his trousers, trying to conceal them as much as possible. He took the purse too. Then he went out of his room, leaving the door open. He walked quickly and resolutely, and though he felt shattered, he had his senses about him. He was afraid they would pursue him, he was afraid that in another half-hour, another quarter of an hour perhaps, instructions would be issued for them to pursue him, and so at all costs, he must hide every trace before then. He must clear everything up while he still had some strength, some reasoning power left . . . Where was he to go? That had long been settled. "Fling them into the canal, and all traces hidden in the water, the whole thing would be over." That was what he had decided during the night of his delirium when several times he had had the impulse to get up and go away, to hurry up and get rid of it all. But getting rid of it turned out to be a very difficult task. He wandered along the bank of the Ekaterinsky Canal for half an hour or more and looked several times at the steps running down to the water, but he could not think of carrying out his plan; either rafts stood at the steps' edge, and women were washing clothes on them, or boats were moored there, and people were swarming everywhere. Moreover he could be seen and noticed from the banks on all sides; it would look suspicious for someone to go down on purpose, stop, and throw something into the water. And what if the boxes were to float instead of sinking? And, of course, they would. Even as it was, everyone he met seemed to stare and look round, as if they had nothing to do but to watch him. "Why is it, or is it my imagination?" he thought. At last the thought struck him that it might be better to go to the Neva. There were not so many people there, he would be less well observed, and it would be more convenient in every way above all, it was further off. He wondered how he could have been wandering for a good half hour, worried and anxious in this dangerous part of town without thinking of it before. And that half hour he had lost over an irrational plan, simply because he had thought of it in delirium! He had become extremely absent and forgetful and he was aware of it. He must finish it quickly. He walked towards the Neva along V____ Prospect, but on the way another idea struck him. "Why to the Neva? Would it not be better to go somewhere far off, to the Islands again, and hide the things there in some solitary place, in a wood or under a bush, and mark the spot, perhaps?" And though he felt incapable of clear judgment, the idea seemed to him a good one. But he was not destined to go there. For coming out of V____ Prospect towards the square, he saw on the left a passage leading between two blank walls to a courtyard. On the right-hand side, the blank unwhitewashed wall of a four-storied house stretched far into the court; on the left, a wooden hoarding ran parallel to it for twenty paces into the courtyard and then turned sharply to the left. Here was a deserted fenced-off place where rubbish of various sorts was lying. At the end of the courtyard, the corner of a low, seedy stone shed, apparently part of some workshop, peeped from behind the hoarding. It was probably a carriage builder or carpenter shed; the whole place from the entrance was black with coal dust. Here would be the place to throw it, he thought. Not seeing anyone in the yard, he slipped in and at once saw a sink near the gate, such as is often put in yards where there are many workmen or cabdrivers; and on the hoarding above had been scribbled in chalk the age-old joke, "Standing here strictly forbidden." This was all for the better, because there would be nothing suspicious about him going in. "Here I could throw it all in a heap and get away!" Looking round once more, with his hand already in his pocket, he noticed against the outer wall, between the entrance and the sink, a big uncut stone, weighing perhaps sixty pounds. The other side of the wall was a street. He could hear passersby, always numerous in that part, but he could not be seen from the entrance, unless someone came in from the street, which might well happen, in fact, so he needed to hurry. He bent down over the stone, seized the top of it firmly in both hands and, using all his strength, turned it over. Under the stone was a small hollow in the ground, and he immediately emptied his pocket into it. The purse lay at the top, and yet the hollow was not filled up. Then he seized the stone again and with one twist turned it back, so that it was in the same position again, though it stood a touch higher. But he scraped the earth around it and pressed it at the edges with his foot. Nothing could be noticed. Then he went out, and turned into the square. Again an intense, almost unbearable joy overwhelmed him for an instant, as it had in the police office. "I have buried my tracks! And who, who can think of looking under that stone? It has been lying there most likely ever since the house was built, and will lie as many years more. And if it were found, who would think of me? It is all over! No clue!" And he laughed. Yes, he remembered that he began laughing a thin, nervous noiseless laugh, and went on laughing all the time he was crossing the square. But when he reached the K____ Boulevard where two days before he had come upon that girl, his laughter suddenly ceased. Other ideas crept into his mind. He felt all at once that it would be loathsome to pass that seat on which he had sat and pondered after the girl had gone, and that it would be hateful, too, to meet that whiskered policeman to whom he had given the twenty kopecks: "Damn him!" He walked, looking around him angrily and distractedly. All his ideas now seemed to be circling round some single point, and he felt that there really was such a point, and that now, now, he was left facing that point and for the first time, in fact, during the last two months. "Curse it all!" he thought suddenly, in a fit of uncontrollable fury. "If it begun, then it begun. Damn the new life! Lord, how stupid it is! . . . And what lies I told today! How despicably I fawned on that wretched Ilia Petrovich! But that is all stupidity! What do I care for them all, and the fact that I fawned on them! It not that at all! It not that at all!" Suddenly he stopped; an utterly unexpected and extremely simple new question perplexed and bitterly confounded him. "If all this has really been done deliberately and not idiotically, if I really had a certain and definite object, how is it that I didn't even glance into the purse and don't know what I had there, that purse for which I have undergone these agonies and have deliberately undertaken this base, filthy, degrading business? And here I wanted to throw into the water the purse together with all the things which I had not seen either . . . how that?" Yes, that was true, that was all true. Yet he had known it all before, and it was not a new question for him, even when it was decided in the night without hesitation and consideration, as though that was how it must be, as though it could not possibly be otherwise . . . Yes, he had known it all, and understood it all; surely it had all been settled even yesterday at the moment when he was bending over the box and pulling the jewel-cases out of it ... Yes, that the way it was. "It because I'm very ill," he decided grimly at last, "I've been worrying and irritating myself, and I don't know what I'm doing . . . Yesterday and the day before yesterday and all this time I've been worrying myself . . . I'll get well and I shan't worry . . . But what if I don't get well at all? Good God, how sick I am of it all!" He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing for some distraction, but he did not know what to do, what to attempt. A new overwhelming sensation was gaining more and more mastery over him every moment; it was an immeasurable, almost physical repulsion for everything surrounding him, a stubborn, malignant feeling of hatred. All who met him were loathsome to him he loathed their faces, their movements, their gestures. If anyone had addressed him, he felt that he might have spat at them or bitten them . . . He stopped suddenly on coming out onto the bank of the Little Neva, near the bridge to Vassilyevsky Island. "But he lives here, in that house," he thought, "but it not as if I've not come to Razumikhin of my own accord! Here it is, the same thing over again . . . I wonder, though; have I come on purpose or have I simply got here by chance? Never mind, I said the day before yesterday that I would go and see him the day after, so I will! Besides, I really cannot go any further now." He went up to Razumikhin room on the fifth floor. The latter was at home in his little room, busily writing at the time, and he opened the door himself. It was four months since they had seen each other. Razumikhin was sitting in a ragged dressing-gown, with slippers on his bare feet, untidy, unshaven and unwashed. His face showed surprise. "Is it you?" he cried. He looked his comrade up and down; then after a brief pause, he whistled. "As hard up as all that! My friend, you've cut me out!" he added, looking at Raskolnikov rags. "Come and sit down, you look tired." And when he had sunk down on the American leather sofa, which was in an even worse condition than his own, Razumikhin saw at once that his visitor was ill. "Hey, you're seriously ill, do you know that?" He began feeling his pulse. Raskolnikov pulled his hand away. "Never mind," he said, "I have come for this; I have no lessons . . . I wanted . . . but I don't want lessons . . . " "My God! You're delirious!" Razumikhin remarked, watching him carefully. "No, I am not." Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had mounted the stairs to Razumikhin , he had not realized that he would be meeting his friend face to face. Now, in a flash, he knew that what he was least of all disposed for at that moment was to be face to face with anyone in the world. He almost choked with rage at himself as soon as he crossed Razumikhin threshold. "Goodbye," he said abruptly, and walked to the door. "Stop, stop! You're behaving very strangely." "I don't want to," said the other, again pulling away his hand. "Then why in God name have you come? Are you mad, or what? This is . . . almost insulting! I won't let you go like that." "Well, then, I came to you because I know no-one but you who could help . . . to begin with . . . because you are kinder than anyone clever, I mean, and can judge . . . and now I see that I want nothing. Do you hear? Nothing at all . . . no-one services . . . no-one sympathy. I am by myself . . . alone. Come on, that enough. Leave me alone." "Stay a minute, you idiot! You are a total madman. Do what you like for all I care. I have no lessons, do you see, and I don't care about that, but there a bookseller, Kheruvimov, and he what I've replaced my lessons with. I wouldn't exchange him for five of them. He doing some kind of publishing, and issuing natural science manuals, and what a circulation they have! Even the titles are worth the money! You always told me I was a fool, but, my God, there are greater fools than I am! Now he is setting up for being advanced, not that he has any understanding of anything, but, of course, I encourage him. Here are two signatures of the German text in my opinion, the crudest charlatanism; it discusses the question, ?ÄòIs woman a human being?' and, of course, triumphantly proves that she is. Kheruvimov is going to bring out this work as a contribution to the question of women; I am translating it; he will expand these two and a half signatures into six, we shall make up a gorgeous title half a page long and bring it out at half a ruble. It will do! He pays me six rubles per signature, it works out to fifteen rubles for the job, and I've had six already in advance. When we have finished this, we are going to begin a translation about whales, and then some of the dullest scandals out of the second part of "The Confessions" we have marked for translation; somebody has told Kheruvimov that Rousseau was a kind of Radishchev.21 You can be sure I don't contradict him, damn him! Well, would you like to do the second signature of ?ÄòIs woman a human being?' If you would, take the German and pens and paper all those are provided and take three rubles; for as I have had six rubles in advance on the whole thing, three rubles come to you for your share. And when you have finished the signature there will be another three rubles for you. And please don't think I am doing you a service; quite the contrary, as soon as you came in, I saw how you could help me; to start with, I am bad at spelling, and secondly, I am sometimes totally lost when I read German, so I make it up as I go along for the most part. The only comfort is that it bound to be a change for the better. Though who can tell, maybe it sometimes for the worse. Will you take it?" Raskolnikov took the German sheets in silence, took the three rubles and, without a word, went out. Razumikhin gazed after him in astonishment. But when Raskolnikov was in the next street, he turned back, mounted the stairs to Razumikhin again and laying on the table the German article and the three rubles, went out again, still without uttering a word. "Are you raving, or what?" Razumikhin shouted, roused to fury at last. "What farce is this? You'll drive me crazy too . . . what did you come to see me for, damn you?" "I don't want . . . translation," muttered Raskolnikov from the stairs. "Then what on earth do you want?" shouted Razumikhin from above. Raskolnikov continued descending the staircase in silence. "Hey! Where are you living?" No answer. "Well, then, go to hell!" But Raskolnikov was already stepping out into the street. On the Nikolaevsky Bridge he was roused to full consciousness again by an unpleasant incident. A coachman, after shouting at him two or three times, gave him a violent lash on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen under his horses' hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that he dashed away to the railing (for some unknown reason he had been walking right in the middle of the bridge in the traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his teeth. He heard laughter, of course. "Serves him right!" "A pickpocket, I'd say." "Pretending to be drunk, and getting under the wheels on purpose; and you have to answer for him." "It a regular profession, that what it is." But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and bewildered at the retreating carriage and rubbing his back, he suddenly felt someone thrust money into his hand. He looked. It was an elderly woman in a shawl and goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter, wearing a hat, and carrying a green parasol. "Take it, my good man, in Christ name." He took it, and they passed by. It was a twenty kopeck piece. From his dress and appearance they might well have taken him for a beggar asking for donations in the streets, and the gift of the twenty kopecks he doubtless owed to the blow, which made them feel sorry for him. He closed his hand on the twenty kopecks, walked on for ten paces, and turned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was cloudless and the water was almost bright blue, which is so rare in the Neva. The dome of the cathedral, which is seen at its best from the bridge about twenty paces from the chapel, glittered in the sunlight, and in the pure air every ornament on it could be clearly distinguished. The pain from the lash eased off, and Raskolnikov forgot about it; one uneasy and not quite definite idea now occupied him completely. He stood still, and gazed long and intently into the distance; this spot was especially familiar to him. When he was attending the university, he had hundreds of times generally on his way home stood still on this spot, gazed at this truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marveled at a vague and mysterious emotion it aroused in him. It left him strangely cold; for him, this gorgeous picture was blank and lifeless. He wondered every time at his somber and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting himself, put off finding an explanation for it. He vividly recalled those old doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was no mere chance that he recalled them now. It struck him as strange and grotesque that he should have stopped at the same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he could think the same thoughts, be interested in the same theories and pictures that had interested him . . . so short a time ago. He felt it almost amusing, and yet it wrung his heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all that seemed to him now all his old past, his old thoughts, his old problems and theories, his old impressions and that picture and himself and all, all . . . He felt as though he were flying upwards, and everything were vanishing from his sight. Making an unconscious movement with his hand, he suddenly became aware of the piece of money in his fist. He opened his hand, stared at the coin, and with a sweep his arm flung it into the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him, he had cut himself off from every one and from everything at that moment. Evening was coming on when he reached home, so he must have been walking for about six hours. How and where he came back he did not remember. Undressing, and quivering like an overdriven horse, he lay down on the sofa, drew his overcoat over him, and at once sank into oblivion ... It was dusk when he was woken by a fearful scream. God, what a scream! He had never heard such unnatural sounds, such howling, wailing, grinding, tears, blows and curses. He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. In terror he sat up in bed, almost swooning with agony. But the fighting, wailing and cursing grew louder and louder. And then to his intense amazement he caught the voice of his landlady. She was howling, shrieking and wailing, rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so that he could not make out what she was talking about; she was pleading, no doubt, not to be beaten, as she was being mercilessly beaten on the stairs. The voice of her assailant was so horrible with spite and rage that it was almost a croak; but he, too, was saying something, and just as quickly and indistinctly, hurrying and spluttering. All at once Raskolnikov trembled; he recognized the voice it was the voice of Ilia Petrovich. Ilia Petrovich here and beating the landlady! He is kicking her, banging her head against the steps that clear, he could tell that from the sounds, from the cries and the thuds. What happening, has the world turned upside down? He could hear people running in crowds from all the floors and staircases; he heard voices, exclamations, knocking, doors banging. "But why, why, and how could it be?" he repeated, thinking seriously that he had gone mad. But no, he heard it too distinctly! And then they would come to him next, "for no doubt . . . it all about that . . . about yesterday . . . My God!" He would have fastened his door with the latch, but he could not lift his hand . . . besides, it would be useless. Terror gripped his heart like ice, tortured him and numbed him . . . But at last all this uproar, after continuing for about ten minutes, gradually began to subside. The landlady was moaning and groaning; Ilia Petrovich was still uttering threats and curses . . . But at last he, too, seemed to be silent, and now he could not be heard. "Can he have gone away? Good Lord!" Yes, and now the landlady is going too, still weeping and moaning . . . And then her door slammed . . . Now the crowd was going from the stairs to their rooms, exclaiming, disputing, calling to one another, raising their voices to a shout, dropping them to a whisper. There must have been huge numbers of them almost all the inmates of the block. "But, good God, how could it be! And why, why had he come here!" Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not close his eyes. He lay for half an hour in such anguish, such intolerably infinite terror as he had never experienced before. Suddenly a bright light flashed into his room. Nastasia came in with a candle and a plate of soup. Looking at him carefully and making sure that he was not asleep, she set the candle on the table and began to lay out what she had brought bread, salt, a plate, a spoon. "You've eaten nothing since yesterday, I bet. You've been trudging about all day, and you're shaking with fever." "Nastasia . . . what were they beating the landlady for?" She looked intently at him. "Who beat the landlady?" "Just now . . . half an hour ago, Ilia Petrovich, the assistant-superintendent, on the stairs . . . Why was he maltreating her like that, and . . . why was he here?" Nastasia scrutinized him, silent and frowning, and her scrutiny lasted a long time. He felt uneasy, even frightened at her searching eyes. "Nastasia, why aren't you saying anything?" he said timidly at last in a weak voice. "It the blood," she answered at last softly, as though speaking to herself. "Blood? What blood?" he muttered, growing white and turning towards the wall. Nastasia still looked at him without speaking. "Nobody has been beating the landlady," she declared at last in a firm, resolute voice. He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe. "I heard it myself . . . I was not asleep . . . I was sitting up," he said still more timidly. "I listened for a long while. The assistant-superintendent came . . . Everyone ran out on to the stairs from all the apartments." "No-one has been here. That the blood crying in your ears. When there no outlet for it and it gets clotted, you start imagining things . . . Will you eat something?" He made no answer. Nastasia still stood over him, watching him. "Give me something to drink . . . Nastasia." She went downstairs and returned with a white earthenware jug of water. He remembered only swallowing one sip of the cold water and spilling some on his neck. Then he sank into oblivion. CHAPTER THREE HE WAS NOT COMPLETELY unconscious, however, all the time he was ill; he was in a feverish state, sometimes delirious, sometimes half conscious. He remembered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed as though there were a number of people around him; they wanted to take him away somewhere, there was a great deal of squabbling and discussing about him. Then he would be alone in the room; they had all gone away afraid of him, and only now and then opened the door a crack to look at him; they threatened him, plotted something together, laughed, and mocked him. He remembered Nastasia often at his bedside; he distinguished another person, too, whom he seemed to know very well, though he could not remember who they were, and this upset him, even made him cry. Sometimes he imagined he had been lying there a month; at other times it all seemed part of the same day. But of that of that he had no recollection, and yet every minute he felt that he had forgotten something he ought to remember. He worried and tormented himself trying to remember, moaned, flew into a rage, or sank into awful, intolerable terror. Then he struggled to get up, would have run away, but someone always prevented him by force, and he sank back into impotence and forgetfulness. At last he returned to complete consciousness. It happened at ten o'clock in the morning. On fine days the sun shone into the room at that hour, throwing a streak of light on the right wall and the corner near the door. Nastasia was standing beside him with another person, a complete stranger, who was looking at him very inquisitively. He was a young man with a beard, wearing a full, short-waisted coat, and looked like a messenger. The landlady was peeping in at the half-opened door. Raskolnikov sat up. "Who is this, Nastasia?" he asked, pointing to the young man. "He himself again!" she said. "He himself," echoed the man. Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the landlady closed the door and disappeared. She was always shy and dreaded conversations or discussions. She was a woman of forty, not at all bad-looking, fat and buxom, with black eyes and eyebrows, good-natured from fatness and laziness, and absurdly bashful. "Who . . . are you?" he went on, addressing the man. But at that moment the door was flung open, and, stooping a little, as he was so tall, Razumikhin came in. "What a cabin it is!" he cried. "I am always knocking my head. You call this an apartment! So you are conscious, my friend? I've just heard the news from Pashenka." "He has just come to," said Nastasia. "Just come to," echoed the man again, with a smile. "And who are you?" Razumikhin asked, suddenly addressing him. "My name is Vrazumikhin, at your service; not Razumikhin, as I am always called, but Vrazumikhin, a student and gentleman; and he is my friend. And who are you?" "I am the messenger from our office, from the merchant Shelopaev, and I've come on business." "Please sit down." Razumikhin seated himself on the other side of the table. "It a good thing you've come to, my friend," he went on to Raskolnikov. "For the last four days you have scarcely eaten or drunk anything. We had to give you tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see you twice. You remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and said at once it was nothing serious something seemed to have gone to your head. Some nervous nonsense, the result of bad feeding, he says you have not had enough beer and radish, but it nothing much, it will pass and you will be all right. Zossimov is first-rate! He is making a real name for himself. Come, then, I won't keep you," he said, addressing the man again. "Will you explain what you want? You must know, Rodia, this is the second time they have sent from the office; but it was another man last time, and I talked to him. Who was it who came before?" "That was the day before yesterday, I would venture, if you please, sir. That was Alexey Semionovich; he is in our office, too." "He was more intelligent than you, don't you think so?" "Yes, indeed, sir, he weightier than I am." "Fine; go on." "At your mother request, through Afanasy Ivanovich Vakhrushin, of whom I presume you have heard more than once, a gift has been sent to you from our office," the man began, addressing Raskolnikov. "If you are in an intelligible condition, I've thirty-five rubles to give to you, as Semion Semionovich has received from Afanasy Ivanovich at your mother request instructions to that effect, as on previous occasions. Do you know him, sir?" "Yes, I remember . . . Vakhrushin," Raskolnikov said dreamily. "You hear that, he knows Vakhrushin," cried Razumikhin. "He is in ?Äòan intelligible condition'! And I see you are an intelligent man too. Well, it always pleasant to hear words of wisdom." "That the gentleman, Vakhrushin, Afanasy Ivanovich. And at your mother request she has sent you a gift once before in the same manner, through him he did not refuse this time either, and sent instructions to Semion Semionovich some days since to hand you thirty-five rubles in the hope of better things to come." "That ?Äòhoping for better things to come' is the best thing you've said, though ?Äòyour mother' isn't bad either. Come on then, what do you think? Is he fully conscious?" "That all right. If he can just sign this little paper." "He can scrawl his name. Have you got the book?" "Yes, here the book." "Give it to me. Here, Rodia, sit up. I'll hold you. Take the pen and scribble ?ÄòRaskolnikov' for him. At the moment, my friend, money is sweeter to us than treacle." "I don't want it," said Raskolnikov, pushing away the pen. "Not want it?" "I won't sign it." "How the devil can you do without signing it?" "I don't want . . . the money." "Don't want the money! Come on, that nonsense, I'll be a witness to that. Don't worry, he just on his travels again. But that pretty common with him anyway ... You are a man of judgment and we will take him in hand, that is, more simply, take his hand and he will sign it. Here." "But I can come another time." "No, no. Why should we trouble you? You are a man of judgment . . . Now, Rodia, don't keep your visitor, you can see that he waiting," and he made ready to hold Raskolnikov hand in earnest. "Stop, I'll do it alone," said the latter, taking the pen and signing his name. The messenger took out the money and went away. "Bravo! And now, brother, are you hungry?" "Yes," answered Raskolnikov. "Is there any soup?" "Some of yesterday ," answered Nastasia, who was still standing there. "With potatoes and rice in it?" "Yes." "I know it by heart. Bring us soup and tea." "I will." Raskolnikov observed all this with profound astonishment and a dull, unreasoning terror. He made up his mind to keep quiet and see what would happen. "I don't think I'm feverish; I think it all real," he pondered. In a couple of minutes Nastasia returned with the soup, and announced that the tea would soon be ready. With the soup she brought two spoons, two plates, salt, pepper, mustard for the beef, and so on. The table was set as it had not been for a long time. The cloth was clean. "It would not be amiss, Nastasia, if Praskovia Pavlovna were to send us up a couple of bottles of beer. We could empty them." "You don't stop, do you," muttered Nastasia, and she left to carry out his orders. Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained attention. Meanwhile Razumikhin sat down on the sofa beside him, as clumsily as a bear put his left arm round Raskolnikov head, although he was able to sit up, and with his right hand gave him a spoonful of soup, blowing on it so it would not burn him. But the soup was only just warm. Raskolnikov swallowed one spoonful greedily, then a second, then a third. But after giving him a few more spoonfuls of soup, Razumikhin suddenly stopped, and said that he must ask Zossimov whether he ought to have more. Nastasia came in with two bottles of beer. "And will you have tea?" "Yes." "Come on, Nastasia, bring some tea; tea we can attempt without the faculty. But here is the beer!" He moved back to his chair, pulled the soup and meat in front of him, and began eating as though he had not touched food for three days. "I must tell you, Rodia, I dine like this here every day now," he mumbled with his mouth full of beef, "and it all Pashenka, your dear little landlady, who sees to that; she loves to do anything for me. I don't ask for it, but, of course, I don't object. And here Nastasia with the tea. She a quick girl. Nastasia, my dear, won't you have some beer?" "No way!" "A cup of tea, then?" "A cup of tea, maybe." "Pour it out. Stop, I'll pour it out myself. Sit down." He poured out two cups, left his dinner, and sat on the sofa again. As before, he put his left arm round the sick man head, raised him up and gave him tea in spoonfuls, again blowing each spoonful steadily and earnestly, as though this process was the principal and most effective means towards his friend recovery. Raskolnikov said nothing and made no resistance, though he felt strong enough to sit up on the sofa without support and could not only have held a cup or a spoon, but maybe even walked about. But in a moment of some strange, almost animal cunning he dreamt up the idea of hiding his strength and lying low for a time, pretending if necessary that he was not yet in full possession of his faculties, and meanwhile listening to find out what was going on. Yet he could not overcome his sense of repugnance. After sipping a dozen spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly released his head, pushed the spoon away capriciously, and sank back on the pillow. There were actually real pillows under his head now, down pillows in clean cases, he observed that, too, and took note of it. "Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam today to make him some raspberry tea," said Razumikhin, going back to his chair and attacking his soup and beer again. "And where is she going to get raspberries for you?" asked Nastasia, balancing a saucer on her five outspread fingers and sipping tea through a lump of sugar. "She'll get it at the store, my dear. You see, Rodia, all sorts of things have been happening while you have been laid up. When you went off in that terrible way without leaving your address, I felt so angry that I resolved to find you and punish you. I set to work that very day. How I ran about making inquiries for you! This apartment of yours I had forgotten, though I never remembered it, indeed, because I did not know it; and as for your old lodgings, I could only remember it was at the Five Corners, Kharlamov house. I kept trying to find that Kharlamov house, and afterwards it turned out that it was not Kharlamov , but Buch . How confusing sounds get sometimes! So I lost my temper, and I went on the off chance to the address bureau the next day, and just imagine, in two minutes they looked you up! Your name is down there." "My name!" "I should think so; and yet they couldn't find a General Kobelev while I was there. Well, it a long story. But as soon as I did land on this place, I soon got to learn about all your affairs all of them, all of them, my friend, I know everything; Nastasia here will tell you. I made the acquaintance of Nikodim Fomich and Ilia Petrovich, and the house-porter and Mr. Zametov, Alexander Grigorievich, the head clerk in the police office, and, last, but not least, of Pashenka; Nastasia here knows . . . " "He got round her," Nastasia murmured, smiling slyly. "Why don't you put sugar in your tea, Nastasia Nikiforovna?" "You are a one!" Nastasia cried suddenly, going off into a giggle. "I'm not Nikiforovna, I'm Petrovna," she added suddenly, recovering from her mirth. "I'll make a note of it. Well, my friend, to cut a long story short, I was going in for a real explosion here to uproot all the bad influences in the neighborhood, but Pashenka won the day. I had not expected to find her so . . . headstrong. So, what do you think?" Raskolnikov did not speak, but he still kept his eyes fixed upon him, full of anxiety. "And all that could be wished, indeed, in every respect," Razumikhin went on, not at all embarrassed by his silence. "You're so cunning!" Nastasia shrieked again. This conversation gave her unspeakable delight. "It a pity, my friend, that you did not set to work in the right way at first. You ought to have approached her differently. She is, so to speak, a pretty inexplicable character. But we will talk about her character later . . . How could you let things come to such a pass that she gave up sending you your dinner? And that I.O.U.? You must have been mad to sign an I.O.U. And that promise of marriage when her daughter, Natalia Yegorovna, was alive? . . . I know all about it! But I see that a delicate matter and I am an idiot; sorry. But, talking of idiocy, do you know Praskovia Pavlovna is not nearly as idiotic as you would think at first sight?" "No," mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but feeling that it was better to keep up the conversation. "She isn't, is she?" cried Razumikhin, delighted to get an answer out of him. "But she not very clever either, eh? She essentially, essentially an inexplicable character! I'm sometimes entirely at a loss, I assure you . . . She must be forty; she says she thirty-six, and of course she has every right to say so. But I swear I think highly of her intellectually, simply from the metaphysical point of view; there is a sort of symbolism between us, a sort of algebra or what not! I don't understand it! Well, that all nonsense. Only, seeing as you are not a student now and have lost your lessons and your clothes, and that because of the young lady death she has no need to treat you as a relation, she suddenly took fright; and as you hid in your den and dropped all your old relations with her, she planned to get rid of you. And she been cherishing that design for a long time, but she was sorry to lose the I.O.U. because you assured her yourself that your mother would pay." "It was base of me to say that . . . My mother herself is almost a beggar . . . and I told a lie to keep my room . . . and be fed," Raskolnikov said loudly and distinctly. "Yes, you did very sensibly. But the worst of it is that at that point Mr. Chebarov turns up, a business man. Pashenka would never have thought of doing anything on her own account, she is too retiring; but the business man is by no means retiring, and first thing he puts the question, ?ÄòIs there any hope of realizing the I.O.U.?' Answer: there is, because he has a mother who would save her Rodia with her hundred and twenty-five rubles pension, if she has to starve herself; and a sister, too, who would go into slavery for his sake. That what he was counting on . . . Why do you start? I know all the ins and outs of your affairs now, my friend it not for nothing that you were so open with Pashenka when you were her prospective son-in-law, and I say all this as a friend . . . But I tell you what it is; an honest and sensitive man is open; and a business man ?Äòlistens and goes on eating you up.' Well, then she gave the I.O.U. as payment to this Chebarov, and without hesitation he made a formal demand for payment. When I heard of all this I wanted to blow him up, too, to clear my conscience, but by that time Pashenka and I were getting along beautifully, and I insisted on stopping the whole affair, telling him that you would pay. I went security for you, brother. Do you understand? We called Chebarov, flung him ten rubles and got the I.O.U. back from him, and here I have the honor of presenting it to you. She trusts your word now. Here, take it, you see I have torn it." Razumikhin put the note on the table. Raskolnikov looked at him and turned to the wall without uttering a word. Even Razumikhin felt a twinge. "I see, my friend," he said a moment later, "that I've been playing the fool again. I thought my chatter would keep you amused, and I think all I've done is made you angry." "Was it you I didn't recognize when I was delirious?" Raskolnikov asked, after a moment pause without turning his head. "Yes, and you flew into a rage about it, especially when I brought Zametov one day." "Zametov? The head clerk? What for?" Raskolnikov turned round quickly and fixed his eyes on Razumikhin. "What the matter with you? . . . What are you upset about? He wanted to meet you because I talked to him a lot about you . . . How could I have found out so much except from him? He wonderful, my friend, he great . . . in his own way, of course. Now we are friends see each other almost every day. I have just moved into this part of town. I've been with him to Luise Ivanovna once or twice . . . Do you remember Luise, Luise Ivanovna? "Did I say anything when I was delirious?" "I'd say you did! You were beside yourself." "What did I rave about?" "What next? What did you rave about? What people do rave about . . . Well, my friend, I can't waste time. I must do some work." He got up from the table and took up his cap. "What did I rave about?" "How he keeps on! Are you afraid of having let out some secret? Don't worry yourself; you said nothing about a countess. But you said a lot about a bulldog, and about earrings and chains, and about Krestovsky Island, and some porter, and Nikodim Fomich and Ilia Petrovich, the assistant superintendent. And another thing that was of special interest to you was your own sock. You whined, ?ÄòGive me my sock.' Zametov hunted all about your room for your socks, and with his own scented, ring-bedecked fingers he gave you the rag. And only then were you comforted, and for the next twenty-four hours you held the wretched thing in your hand; we could not get it from you. It is most likely somewhere under your quilt at this moment. And then you asked so piteously for some fringe for your trousers. We tried to find out what sort of fringe, but we couldn't make it out. Now, business! Here are thirty-five rubles; I'll take ten of them, and I shall give you an account of them in an hour or two. I will let Zossimov know at the same time, though he ought to have been here long ago, it nearly twelve. And you, Nastasia, look in pretty often while I am away, to see whether he wants a drink or anything else. And I will tell Pashenka what she needs to do myself. Goodbye!" "He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he a clever one!" said Nastasia as he went out; then she opened the door and stood listening, but could not resist running downstairs after him. She was very eager to hear what he would say to the landlady. She was evidently quite fascinated by Razumikhin. No sooner had she left the room than the sick man flung off the bedclothes and leapt out of bed like a madman. With burning, twitching impatience he had waited for them to be gone so that he might set to work. But to what work? Now, as though to spite him, it eluded him. "Good God, just tell me one thing: do they know about it or not? What if they know and they're just pretending, mocking me while I'm laid up, and then they'll come in and tell me that they found out long ago and that they have only . . . What should I do now? That what I forgot; it as if I did it on purpose forgot it all at once, I remembered a minute ago." He stood in the middle of the room and gazed in miserable bewilderment around him; he walked to the door, opened it, listened; but that was not what he wanted. Suddenly, as though recalling something, he rushed to the corner where there was a hole under the paper, began examining it, put his hand into the hole, fumbled but that was not it. He went to the stove, opened it and began rummaging in the ashes; the frayed edges of his trousers and the rags cut off his pocket were lying there just as he had thrown them. No-one had looked, then! Then he remembered the sock which Razumikhin had just been telling him about. Yes, there it lay on the sofa under the quilt, but it was so covered with dust and grime that Zametov could not have seen anything on it. "Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why did they send for me? Where the notice? Bah! I'm mixing it up; that was then. I looked at my sock then, too, but now . . . now I've been ill. But what did Zametov come for? Why did Razumikhin bring him?" he muttered, helplessly sitting on the sofa again. "What does it mean? Am I still delirious, or is it real? I believe it is real . . . Ah, I remember, I must escape! Escape fast. Yes, I must, I must escape! Yes . . . but where? And where are my clothes? I haven't got any boots. They've taken them away! They've hidden them! I understand! Ah, here my coat they didn't take that! And here money on the table, thank God! And here the I.O.U.... I'll take the money and go and rent another place to stay. They won't find me! ... Yes, but the address bureau? They'll find me, Razumikhin will find me. Better escape altogether . . . far away . . . to America, and let them do their worst! And take the I.O.U.... it'd be of use to me there . . . What else shall I take? They think I am ill! They don't know that I can walk, ha-ha-ha! I could see by their eyes that they know all about it! If only I could get downstairs! And what if they have put someone on guard there policemen! What this tea? Ah, and here is some beer left, half a bottle, cold!" He snatched up the bottle, which still contained a glassful of beer, and gulped it down with relish, as though quenching a flame in his chest. But in a minute the beer had gone to his head, and a faint and even pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and pulled the quilt over him. His sick and incoherent thoughts grew more and more disconnected, and soon a light, pleasant drowsiness came upon him. With a sense of comfort he nestled his head in the pillow, wrapped more closely about him the soft, wadded quilt which had replaced the old, ragged overcoat, sighed softly and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing sleep. He woke up, hearing someone come in. He opened his eyes and saw Razumikhin standing in the doorway, uncertain whether to come in or not. Raskolnikov sat up quickly on the sofa and gazed at him, as though trying to recall something. "Ah, you are not asleep! Here I am! Nastasia, bring in the parcel!" Razumikhin shouted down the stairs. "You shall have the account immediately." "What time is it?" asked Raskolnikov, looking round uneasily. "Yes, you had a fine sleep, my friend, it almost evening; it will be six o'clock soon. You've slept more than six hours." "My God! Have I?" "And why not? It'll do you good. What the hurry? Do you have a date? We've got all eternity before us. I've been waiting for the last three hours for you; I've been up twice and found you asleep. I called on Zossimov twice; he wasn't in. It doesn't matter, he'll turn up. And I've been out on my own business, too. You know I've been moving today, moving with my uncle. I have an uncle living with me now. But that unimportant, let get down to business. Give me the parcel, Nastasia. We'll open it immediately. And how do you feel now, my friend?" "I am quite well, I am not ill. Razumikhin, have you been here long?" "I tell you I've been waiting for the last three hours." "No, before." "How do you mean?" "How long have you been coming here?" "I told you all about it this morning. Don't you remember?" Raskolnikov pondered. The morning seemed like a dream to him. He could not remember alone, and looked inquiringly at Razumikhin. "Hm!" said the latter, "he has forgotten. I suspected then that you were not quite yourself. Now you are better for your sleep . . . You really look much better. First rate! Well, to business. Look here." He began untying the bundle, which evidently interested him. "Believe me, my friend, this is something especially close to my heart. We've got to make a man of you. Let start from the top. Do you see this cap?" he said, taking out of the bundle a fairly good, though cheap, and ordinary cap. "Let me try it on." "In a moment, afterwards," said Raskolnikov, waving it off. "Come on, Rodia, don't oppose it, afterwards will be too late; and I shan't sleep all night, because I guessed your size without measuring it. Just right!" he cried triumphantly, fitting it on, "just your size! A proper head-covering is the most important item of clothing and a recommendation in its own way. Tolstiakov, a friend of mine, is always obliged to take off his pudding basin when he goes into any public place where other people wear their hats or caps. People think he does it out of slavish politeness, but it simply because he ashamed of his bird nest; he gets embarrassed so easily! Look, Nastasia, here are two specimens of headgear: this Palmerston"22 he took from the corner Raskolnikov old, battered hat, which for some unknown reason, he called a Palmerston "or this jewel! Guess the price, Rodia! Nastasia, what do you suppose I paid for it?" he said, turning to her, seeing that Raskolnikov did not speak. "Twenty kopecks, no more, I'd say," answered Nastasia. "Twenty kopecks, silly!" he cried, offended. "Why, nowadays it would cost you more than that eighty kopecks! And even then only if it been worn. And it bought on condition that when it worn out, they will give you another next year. I swear! Well, now let us pass to the United States of America, as they called them at school. I'm proud of these trousers, I can tell you" and he exhibited to Raskolnikov a pair of light, summer trousers made of a gray woolen material. "No holes, no spots, and quite respectable, although a little worn; and a waistcoat to match, pretty fashionable at the moment. And when it worn it really improves, it gets softer, smoother ... You see, Rodia, the way I see it, the great thing for getting on in the world is always to keep to the seasons; if you don't insist on having asparagus in January, you keep your money in your purse! and it the same with this purchase. It summer now, so I've been buying summer things warmer materials will be wanted for autumn, so you will have to throw these away in any case . . . especially as they will be done for by then due to their own lack of sturdiness if not your higher standard of luxury. Come on, give them a price! What do you say? Two rubles twenty-five kopecks! And remember the conditions: if you wear these out, you will have another suit for nothing! They only do business on that system at Fediaev ; if you've bought a thing once, you're satisfied for life, and you'll never go there again of your own free will. Now for the boots. What do you say? You can see that they're a bit worn, but they'll last a couple of months because it foreign work and foreign leather; the secretary of the English Embassy sold them last week he had only worn them six days, but he was very short of cash. Price a ruble and a half. A bargain?" "But maybe they won't fit," observed Nastasia. "Won't fit? Just look!" and he pulled out of his pocket Raskolnikov old, broken boot, stiffly coated with dry mud. "I didn't go empty-handed they took the size from this monster. We all did our best. And as for your linen, your landlady has seen to that. Here, to begin with, are three shirts made of hemp, but they've got a fashionable front . . . So, eighty kopecks for the cap, two rubles twenty-five kopecks for the suit together that three rubles five kopecks a ruble and a half for the boots you see they're pretty good and that makes four rubles fifty-five kopecks; five rubles for the underclothes they were bought in the lot which makes exactly nine rubles fifty-five kopecks. Forty-five kopecks change in coppers. Will you take it? Come on, Rodia, you've got a new set of clothes, because your overcoat will do, and it even got a style of its own. That comes from getting your clothes from Sharmer !23 As for your socks and other things, I'll leave them to you; we've got twenty-five rubles left. And as for Pashenka and paying for your lodging, don't you worry. I tell you, she'll trust you for anything. And now, my friend, let me change your clothes; I'm sure you'll throw off your illness with your shirt." "Let me be! I don't want to!" Raskolnikov waved him off. He had listened with disgust to Razumikhin efforts to be playful about his purchases. "Come, brother, don't tell me I've been trudging around for nothing," Razumikhin insisted. "Nastasia, don't be shy, help me that it," and in spite of Raskolnikov resistance he dressed him. The latter sank back on the pillows and for a minute or two said nothing. "It will be a long time before I get rid of them," he thought. "What money was all that bought with?" he asked at last, gazing at the wall. "Money? Your own, what the messenger brought from Vakhrushin, your mother sent it. Have you forgotten that, too?" "I remember now," said Raskolnikov after a long, sullen silence. Razumikhin looked at him, frowning and uneasy. The door opened and a tall, stout man whose appearance seemed familiar to Raskolnikov came in. "Zossimov! At last!" cried Razumikhin, delighted. CHAPTER FOUR ZOSSIMOV WAS A TALL, fat man with a puffy, colorless, clean-shaven face and straight flaxen hair. He wore glasses and a big gold ring on his fat finger. He was twenty-seven. He was wearing a fashionable light gray loose coat and light summer trousers, and everything about him was loose, fashionable and tidy and able, his clothes were faultless and his watch-chain was massive. In behavior he was slow and almost indifferent, and at the same time studiously free and easy; he made efforts to conceal his self-importance, but it was always too obvious. All his acquaintances found him tedious, but said he was clever at his work. "I've been to your apartment twice today, my friend. You see, he come to," cried Razumikhin. "I see, I see; and how do we feel now, eh?" said Zossimov to Raskolnikov, watching him carefully and, sitting down at the foot of the sofa, he settled himself as comfortably as he could. "He still down," Razumikhin went on. "We've just changed his linen and he almost cried." "That very natural; you might have put it off if he didn't want you to . . . His pulse is excellent. Is your head still aching, eh?" "I'm fine, I'm perfectly fine!" Raskolnikov declared positively and irritably. He raised himself on the sofa and looked at them with glittering eyes, but sank back on to the pillow at once and turned to the wall. Zossimov watched him intently. "Very good . . . He doing all right," he said lazily. "Has he eaten anything?" They told him, and asked what he could have. "He can have anything . . . soup, tea . . . you mustn't give him mushrooms and cucumbers, of course; he'd better not have meat either, and . . . but no need to tell you that!" Razumikhin and he looked at each other. "No more medicine or anything. I'll look at him again tomorrow. Maybe even today . . . but never mind . . . " "Tomorrow evening I shall take him for a walk," said Razumikhin. "We are going to the Yusupov Garden24 and then to the Crystal Palace."25 "I wouldn't disturb him tomorrow at all, but I don't know . . . a little, maybe . . . but we'll see." "Ah, what a nuisance! I've got a house-warming party tonight; it just round the corner. Couldn't he come? He could lie on the sofa. Are you coming?" Razumikhin said to Zossimov. "Don't forget, you promised." "All right, only a lot later. What are you going to do?" "Oh, nothing tea, vodka, herrings. There'll be a pie . . . just our friends." "And who?" "All neighbors here, almost all new friends, except my old uncle, and he is new too he only arrived in Petersburg yesterday to see to some business of his. We meet once every five years." "What does he do?" "He been stagnating all his life as a district postmaster; he gets a little pension. He is sixty-five not worth talking about . . . But I am fond of him. Porfiry Petrovich, the head of the Investigation Department here . . . But you know him." "Is he a relation of yours, too?" "A very distant one. But why are you scowling? Because you quarreled once, won't you come then?" "I don't care a damn for him." "So much the better. Well, there'll be some students, a teacher, a government clerk, a musician, an officer and Zametov." "Do tell me, please, what you or he" Zossimov nodded at Raskolnikov "can have in common with this Zametov?" "Oh, you particular gentleman! Principles! You work by principles like you work by springs; you won't bother turning round on your own account. If a person is nice, that the only principle I go on. Zametov is a wonderful person." "Though he does take bribes." "Well, he does! and what of it? I don't care if he does take bribes," Razumikhin cried with unnatural irritability. "I don't praise him for taking bribes. I only say he is a nice man in his own way! But if you look at men in all ways are there many good ones left? I'm sure I wouldn't be worth a baked onion myself . . . perhaps with you thrown in." "That too little; I'd give two for you." "And I wouldn't give more than one for you. No more of your jokes! Zametov no more than a boy. I can pull his hair and draw him, not repel him. You'll never improve a man by repelling him, especially a boy. You have to be twice as careful with a boy. Oh, you tedious progressives! You don't understand. You harm yourselves running another person down . . . But if you want to know, we really have something in common." "I'd like to know what." "It all about a house-painter . . . We are getting him out of a mess! Though indeed there nothing to fear now. The matter is absolutely self-evident. We only put on steam." "A painter?" "Why, haven't I told you about it? I only told you the beginning then about the murder of the old pawnbroker-woman. Well, the painter is mixed up in it . . . " "Oh, I heard about that murder before and was rather interested in it . . . partly . . . for one reason . . . I read about it in the papers, too . . . " "Lizaveta was also murdered," Nastasia blurted out, suddenly addressing Raskolnikov. She remained in the room all the time, standing by the door listening. "Lizaveta," murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly. "Lizaveta, the one who sold old clothes. Didn't you know her? She used to come here. She mended a shirt for you, too." Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow paper he picked out one clumsy, white flower with brown lines on it and began examining how many petals there were in it, how many scallops in the petals and how many lines on them. He felt his arms and legs as lifeless as though they had been cut off. He did not attempt to move, but stared obstinately at the flower. "But what about the painter?" Zossimov interrupted Nastasia chatter with marked displeasure. She sighed and was silent. "He was accused of the murder," Razumikhin went on hotly. "Was there evidence against him then?" "Evidence against him! Evidence that was no evidence, and that what we have to prove. It was just as they pinned it on those other two, Koch and Pestriakov, at first. Pah! how stupidly it all done, it makes me sick, though it not my business! Pestriakov may be coming to-night . . . By the way, Rodia, you've heard about all of this already; it happened before you were ill, the day before you fainted at the police office while they were talking about it." Zossimov looked curiously at Raskolnikov. He did not stir. "But I say, Razumikhin, I wonder at you. What a busybody you are!" Zossimov observed. "Maybe I am, but we will get him off anyway," shouted Razumikhin, bringing his fist down on the table. "What the most offensive is not their lying one can always forgive lying lying is a wonderful thing, it gets you closer to the truth what is offensive is that they lie and worship their own lying . . . I respect Porfiry, but . . . What threw them out at first? The door was locked, and when they came back with the porter it was open. So it followed that Koch and Pestriakov were the murderers that was their logic!" "But don't excite yourself; they just detained them, they couldn't help it . . . And, by the way, I've met that man Koch. Didn't he buy unredeemed pledges from the old woman?" "Yes, he is a swindler. He buys up bad debts, too. He makes a profession out of it. But enough of him! Do you know what makes me angry? It their sickening, rotten, petrified routine . . . And this case might be a means of introducing a new method. You can show from the psychological data alone how to track down the real man. ?ÄòWe have facts,' they say. But facts aren't everything at least half the business lies in how you interpret them!" "Can you interpret them, then?" "Anyway, you can't hold your tongue when you have a feeling, a tangible feeling that you might be able to help if only . . . Do you know the details of the case?" "I am waiting to hear about the painter." "Oh, yes! Well, here the story. Early on the third day after the murder, when they were still dangling Koch and Pestriakov though they accounted for every step they took and it was absolutely obvious an unexpected fact turned up. A peasant called Dushkin, who keeps a liquor store facing the house, brought a jeweler case containing some gold earrings to the police office, and told them a long story. ?ÄòThe day before yesterday, just after eight o'clock' remember the day and the time! ?Äòa traveling house-painter, Nikolai, who had been in to see me already that day, brought me this box of gold earrings and stones, and asked me to give him two rubles for them. When I asked him where he got them, he said that he picked them up in the street. I did not ask him anything more.' I am telling you Dushkin story. ?ÄòI gave him a note' a ruble, he meant ?Äòfor I thought if he did not pawn it with me he would with someone else. It would all come to the same thing he'd spend it on drink, so it had better be with me. The further you hide it the quicker you will find it, and if anything turns up, if I hear any rumors, I'll take it to the police.' Of course, that all nonsense; I know this Dushkin, he lies like a horse, he a pawnbroker and a receiver of stolen goods, and he did not cheat Nikolai out of a thirty-ruble trinket in order to give it to the police. He was just afraid. But anyway, back to Dushkin story. ?ÄòI've known this peasant, Nikolai Dementiev, since he was a child; he comes from the same province and district of Zaraisk, we are both Ryazan men. And though Nikolai isn't a drunkard, he drinks, and I knew he had a job in that house, painting work with Dmitri, who comes from the same village too. As soon as he got the ruble he spent it, had a couple of glasses, took his change and went out. But I did not see Dmitri with him then. And the next day I heard that someone had murdered Aliona Ivanovna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna, with an axe. I knew them, and I felt suspicious about the earrings at once, because I knew the murdered woman lent money on pledges. I went to the house, and began to make careful inquiries without saying a word to anyone. First of all I asked, "Is Nikolai here?" Dmitri told me that Nikolai had gone off on a binge; he had come home at dawn drunk, stayed in the house about ten minutes and went out again. Dmitri didn't see him again and is still finishing the job alone. And their job is on the same staircase as the murder, on the second floor. When I heard all that I didn't say a word to anyone' that Dushkin tale ?Äòbut I found out what I could about the murder, and went home feeling as suspicious as ever. And at eight o'clock this morning' that was the third day, you understand ?ÄòI saw Nikolai coming in, not sober, though not that drunk he could understand what was said to him. He sat down on the bench and didn't speak. There was only one stranger in the bar and a man I knew asleep on a bench and our two boys. "Have you seen Dmitri?" I said. "No, I haven't," he said. "And you've not been here either?" "Not since the day before yesterday," he said. "And where did you sleep last night?" "In Peski, with the Kolomensky men." "And where did you get those earrings?" I asked. "I found them in the street," and the way he said it was a little strange; he didn't look at me. "Did you hear what happened that very evening, that very hour, on that same staircase?" I said. "No," he said, "I didn't," and all the while he was listening, his eyes were staring out of his head and he turned as white as chalk. I told him all about it and he took his hat and began getting up. I wanted to keep him. "Wait a bit, Nikolai," said I, "won't you have a drink?" And I signed to the boy to hold the door, and I came out from behind the bar; but he darted out and down the street to the turning at a run. I haven't seen him since. Then my doubts were over he did it, as clear as could be . . . ' " "I should think so," said Zossimov. "Wait! Hear the end. Of course they sought high and low for Nikolai; they detained Dushkin and searched his house; Dmitri, too, was arrested; the Kolomensky men also were turned inside out. And the day before yesterday they arrested Nikolai in a tavern at the end of the town. He had gone there, taken the silver cross off his neck and asked for a drink for it. They gave it to him. A few minutes afterwards the woman went to the cowshed, and through a crack in the wall she saw in the stable adjoining he had made a noose of his sash from the beam, stood on a block of wood, and was trying to put his neck in the noose. The woman screeched her hardest; people ran in. ?ÄòSo that what you are up to!' ?ÄòTake me,' he says, ?Äòto such-and-such a police officer; I'll confess everything.' Well, they took him to that police station that is here with a suitable escort. So they asked him this and that, how old he is, ?Äòtwenty-two,' and so on. To the question, ?ÄòWhen you were working with Dmitri, didn't you see anyone on the staircase at such-and-such a time?' his reply was: ?ÄòSure, folks may have gone up and down, but I didn't notice them.' ?ÄòAnd didn't you hear anything, any noise, and so on?' ?ÄòWe heard nothing special.' ?ÄòAnd did you hear, Nikolai, that on the same day Widow So-and-so and her sister were murdered and robbed?' ?ÄòI never knew a thing about it. The first I heard of it was from Afanasy Pavlovich the day before yesterday. ' ?ÄòAnd where did you find the earrings?' ?ÄòI found them on the pavement.' ?ÄòWhy didn't you go to work with Dmitri the other day?' ?ÄòBecause I was drinking.' ?ÄòAnd where were you drinking?' ?ÄòOh, in such-and-such a place.' ?ÄòWhy did you run away from Dushkin ?' ?ÄòBecause I was very frightened.' ?ÄòWhat were you frightened of?' ?ÄòThat I'd be accused.' ?ÄòHow could you be frightened, if you felt free from guilt?' Now, Zossimov, you may not believe me, that question was put literally in those words. I know it for a fact, it was repeated to me exactly! What do you say to that?" "Well, anyway, there the evidence." "I'm not talking about the evidence now, I am talking about that question, about their own idea of themselves. Well, so they squeezed and squeezed him and he confessed: ?ÄòI didn't find it in the street, I found it in the apartment where I was painting with Dmitri.' ?ÄòAnd how was that?' ?ÄòDmitri and I were painting there all day, and we were just getting ready to go, and Dmitri took a brush and painted my face, and he ran off and I after him. I ran after him, shouting my hardest, and at the bottom of the stairs I ran straight into the porter and some gentlemen and how many gentlemen were there I don't remember. And the porter swore at me, and the other porter swore, too, and the porter wife came out, and swore at us, too; and a gentleman came into the entry with a lady, and he swore at us, too, because Dmitri and I were lying right in the way. I got hold of Dmitri hair and knocked him down and began punching him. And Dmitri, too, caught me by the hair and began punching me. But we didn't do any of it because we were angry, but in a friendly way, for fun. And then Dmitri escaped and ran into the street, and I ran after him; but I didn't catch him, so I went back to the apartment alone; I had to clear up my things. I began putting them together, expecting Dmitri to come, and there in the passage, in the corner by the door, I stepped on the box. I saw it lying there wrapped up in paper. I took off the paper, saw some little hooks, undid them, and in the box were the earrings . . . ' " "Behind the door? Lying behind the door? Behind the door?" Raskolnikov cried suddenly, staring with a blank look of terror at Razumikhin, and he slowly sat up on the sofa, leaning on his hand. "Yes . . . why? What the matter? What wrong?" Razumikhin, too, got up from his seat. "Nothing," Raskolnikov answered faintly, turning to the wall. Everyone was silent for a while. "He must have woken up from a dream," Razumikhin said at last, looking inquiringly at Zossimov. The latter shook his head slightly. "Well, go on," said Zossimov. "What next?" "What next? As soon as he saw the earrings, forgetting Dmitri and everything, he took up his cap and ran to Dushkin and, as we know, got a ruble from him. He told a lie saying he found them in the street, and went off drinking. He keeps repeating his old story about the murder: ?ÄòI knew nothing about it, never heard of it until the day before yesterday.' ?ÄòAnd why didn't you come to the police until now?' ?ÄòI was frightened.' ?ÄòAnd why did you try to hang yourself? ' ?ÄòBecause I was anxious.' ?ÄòWhy were you anxious?' ?ÄòIn case I was accused of it.' Well, that the whole story. And now what do you suppose they deduced from that?" "But there no supposing. There a clue, such as it is, a fact. You wouldn't have your painter set free?" "Now they've just taken him for the murderer. They haven't a shadow of a doubt." "That nonsense. You're overexcited. But what about the earrings ? You must admit that, if on the very same day and hour earrings from the old woman box have come into Nikolai hands, they must have got there somehow. It means a lot in a case like that." "How did they get there? How did they get there?" cried Razumikhin. "How can you, a doctor, whose duty it is to study man and who has more opportunity than anyone else for studying human nature how can you fail to see the character of the man in the whole story? Don't you see at once that the answers he gave in the cross-examination are the holy truth? They came into his hand precisely as he has told us he stepped on the box and picked it up." "The holy truth! But didn't he own up to telling a lie at first?" "Listen to me, pay attention. The porter and Koch and Pestriakov and the other porter and the wife of the first porter and the woman who was sitting in the porter lodge and the man Kryukov, who had just got out of a cab and went in the entryway with a lady on his arm, that is eight or ten witnesses, agree that Nikolai had Dmitri on the ground, was lying on him beating him, while Dmitri hung on to his hair, beating him, too. They lay right in the way, blocking the road. They were sworn at on all sides while they ?Äòlike children' (in the witnesses' own words) were falling over one another, squealing, fighting and laughing with the funniest faces, and, chasing one another like children, they ran into the street. Now take careful note. The bodies upstairs were warm, you understand, warm when they found them! If they, or Nikolai alone, had murdered them and broken open the boxes, or simply taken part in the robbery, let me ask you one question: do their state of mind, their squeals and giggles and childish scuffling at the gate fit in with axes, bloodshed, fiendish cunning and robbery? They'd just killed them, not five or ten minutes before, the bodies were still warm, and at once, leaving the apartment open, knowing that people would go there at once, flinging away their booty, they rolled about like children, laughing and attracting general attention. And there are a dozen witnesses to swear to it!" "Of course it is strange! It even impossible, but . . . " "No, my friend, no buts. And if the fact that the earrings were found in Nikolai hands on the same day and at the same hour as the murder constitutes an important piece of circumstantial evidence against him although the explanation given by him deals with it and doesn't count seriously against him you must take into consideration the facts which prove him innocent, especially as they are facts that cannot be denied. And do you suppose, from the character of our legal system, that they will accept, or that they are in a position to accept, this fact resting simply on a psychological impossibility as irrefutable and conclusively breaking down the circumstantial evidence for the prosecution? No, they won't accept it, they definitely won't, because they found the jewel-case and the man tried to hang himself, ?Äòwhich he couldn't have done if he hadn't felt guilty.' That the point, that what excites me, you must understand!" "Oh, I see you are excited! Wait a bit. I forgot to ask you; what proof is there that the box came from the old woman?" "That been proved," said Razumikhin with apparent reluctance, frowning. "Koch recognized the jewel-case and gave the name of the owner, who proved conclusively that it was his." "That bad. Now another point. Did anyone see Nikolai at the time that Koch and Pestriakov were going upstairs at first, and is there no evidence about that?" "Nobody did see him," Razumikhin answered with vexation. "That the worst thing about it. Even Koch and Pestriakov didn't notice them on their way upstairs, though in fact their evidence could not have been worth much. They said they saw the apartment was open, and that there must be work going on in it, but they took no special notice and could not remember whether there actually were men at work in it." "Hm! . . . So the only evidence for the defense is that they were beating one another and laughing. That a bold assumption, but . . . How do you explain the facts yourself?" "How do I explain them? What is there to explain? It clear. At any rate, the direction in which explanation is to be sought is clear, and the jewel-case points to it. The real murderer dropped those earrings. The murderer was upstairs, locked in, when Koch and Pestriakov knocked at the door. Koch, like an ass, didn't stay at the door; so the murderer popped out and ran down, too, because he had no other way of escape. He hid from Koch, Pestriakov and the porter in the apartment when Nikolai and Dmitri had just run out of it. He stopped there while the porter and others were going upstairs, waited until they were out of hearing and then went calmly downstairs at the very minute when Dmitri and Nikolai ran out into the street and there was no-one in the entryway; maybe he was seen, but not noticed. There are lots of people going in and out. He must have dropped the earrings out of his pocket when he stood behind the door, and didn't notice he'd dropped them, because he had other things to think of. The jewel-case is conclusive proof that he did stand there . . . That how I explain it." "Too clever! No, my friend, you're too clever. That beats everything." "But, why, why?" "Why, because everything fits too well . . . it too melodramatic." "A-ah!" Razumikhin was exclaiming, but at that moment the door opened and a stranger walked in. CHAPTER FIVE HE WAS CLEARLY NO longer a young man: he looked stiff and portly and had a cautious, sour expression on his face. He began by stopping short in the doorway, staring around himself with offensive and undisguised astonishment, as though asking himself what kind of a place he had come to. Mistrustfully pretending to be alarmed and almost affronted, he scanned Raskolnikov low and narrow "cabin." With the same amazement he gazed at Raskolnikov, who lay undressed, disheveled, unwashed, on his miserable dirty sofa, staring at him fixedly. Then with the same deliberation he scrutinized the improper, untidy figure and unshaven face of Razumikhin, who looked him boldly and inquiringly in the face without rising from his seat. A constrained silence lasted for a couple of minutes, and then, as expected, some scene-shifting occurred. Reflecting, probably from certain fairly unmistakable signs, that he would get nothing in this "cabin" by attempting to overawe them, the gentleman softened somewhat, and civilly, though with some severity, emphasizing every syllable of his question, addressed Zossimov: "Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, a student, or former student?" Zossimov made a slight movement, and would have answered if Razumikhin had not anticipated him. "Here he is lying on the sofa! What do you want?" This familiar "what do you want" seemed to cut the ground from under the feet of the pompous gentleman. He was turning to Razumikhin, but checked himself in time and turned to Zossimov again. "This is Raskolnikov," mumbled Zossimov, nodding towards him. Then he yawned long and hard, opening his mouth as wide as possible, lazily put his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, pulled out a huge gold watch in a round hunter case, opened it, looked at it and slowly and lazily put it back. Raskolnikov himself lay without speaking, on his back, gazing persistently at the stranger, though without any understanding. Now that his face was turned away from the strange flower on the wallpaper, it was extremely pale, with a look of anguish, as though he had just undergone an agonizing operation or just been taken from the rack. But the newcomer gradually began to arouse his attention, then his wonder, then suspicion and even alarm. When Zossimov said "This is Raskolnikov," he jumped up quickly, sat on the sofa and with an almost defiant, but weak and breaking, voice articulated: "Yes, I am Raskolnikov! What do you want?" The visitor scrutinized him and pronounced impressively: "Peter Petrovich Luzhin. I believe I have reason to hope that my name is not wholly unknown to you?" But Raskolnikov, who had expected something quite different, gazed blankly and dreamily at him, making no reply, as though he was hearing the name of Peter Petrovich for the first time. "Is it possible that you can up until now have received no information?" asked Peter Petrovich, somewhat confused. In reply Raskolnikov sank languidly back on the pillow, put his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. A look of dismay came into Luzhin face. Zossimov and Razumikhin stared at him more inquisitively than ever, and at last he showed unmistakable signs of embarrassment. "I had presumed and calculated," he faltered, "that a letter posted more than ten days, if not a fortnight ago . . . " "Why are you standing in the doorway?" Razumikhin interrupted suddenly. "If you've got something to say, sit down. You and Nastasia are so crowded. Nastasia, make room for him. Here a chair, thread your way in!" He moved his chair back from the table, made a little space between the table and his knees, and waited in a rather cramped position for the visitor to "thread his way in." The minute was chosen so that it was impossible to refuse, and the visitor squeezed his way through, hurrying and stumbling. Reaching the chair, he sat down, looking suspiciously at Razumikhin. "There no need to be nervous," the latter blurted out. "Rodia has been ill for the last five days and delirious for three, but now he is recovering and has got an appetite. This is his doctor, who has just had a look at him. I am a colleague of Rodia , like him, formerly a student, and now I am nursing him; so don't take any notice of us, just carry on with your business." "Thank you. But shall I not disturb the invalid by my presence and conversation?" Peter Petrovich asked of Zossimov. "N-no," mumbled Zossimov; "you may amuse him." He yawned again. "He has been conscious a long time, since the morning," went on Razumikhin, whose familiarity seemed so much like unaffected good-nature that Peter Petrovich began to be more cheerful, partly, perhaps, because this shabby and insolent person had introduced himself as a student. "Your mother," began Luzhin. "Hm!" Razumikhin cleared his throat loudly. Luzhin looked at him inquiringly. "That all right, go on." Luzhin shrugged his shoulders. "Your mother had commenced a letter to you while I was sojourning in her neighborhood. On my arrival here I purposely allowed a few days to elapse before coming to see you, in order that I might be fully assured that you were in full possession of the news; but now, to my astonishment . . . " "I know, I know!" Raskolnikov cried suddenly with impatient vexation. "So you're the fianc?(c)? I know, and that enough!" There was no doubt that Peter Petrovich was offended this time, but he said nothing. He made a violent effort to understand what it all meant. There was a moment silence. Meanwhile Raskolnikov, who had turned a little towards him when he answered, began suddenly staring at him again with marked curiosity, as though he had not had a good look at him yet, or as though something new had struck him; he rose from his pillow on purpose to stare at him. There certainly was something peculiar in Peter Petrovich whole appearance, something which seemed to justify the title of "fianc?(c)" which had so unfortunately been applied to him. In the first place, it was evident, far too evident, actually, that Peter Petrovich had eagerly used his few days in the capital to buy himself a new set of clothes in which to greet his fianc?(c)e which was in fact an entirely innocent, permissible thing to do. Even his slightly complacent consciousness of the improvement in his appearance might have been forgiven in such circumstances, given that Peter Petrovich had just got engaged. All his clothes were fresh from the tailor and fine for the occasion, except for the fact that they were too new and too distinctly appropriate. Even the stylish new round hat had the same significance. Peter Petrovich treated it too respectfully and held it too carefully in his hands. The exquisite pair of lavender gloves, real Louvain, told the same tale, if only because he did not wear them and just carried them in his hand for show. Light, youthful colors were the dominant feature of Peter Petrovich dress. He wore a charming fawn-colored summer jacket, light thin trousers, a waistcoat of the same fine new cloth, a cravat made of the lightest cambric with pink stripes on it and the best thing about it was that it all suited Peter Petrovich. His very fresh and even handsome face always looked younger than forty-five, his real age. His dark, lamb-chop whiskers made a beautiful setting on both sides, growing thickly about his shining, clean-shaven chin. Although his hair was touched here and there with gray and had been combed and curled at a hairdresser , it did not give him a stupid appearance, as curled hair usually does, by inevitably suggesting a German on his wedding-day. If there really was something unpleasant and repulsive in his pretty good-looking and imposing face, it was caused by a completely different factor. After he had disrespectfully scanned Mr. Luzhin, Raskolnikov smiled wickedly, sank back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling as before. But Mr. Luzhin hardened his heart and seemed to determine to take no notice of their oddities. "I feel the greatest regret at finding you in this situation," he began, again breaking the silence with an effort. "If I had been aware of your illness I should have come earlier. But you know what business is. I have, too, a very important legal affair in the Senate, not to mention other preoccupations which you may well conjecture. I am expecting your mother and sister any minute." Raskolnikov made a movement and seemed about to speak; his face showed some excitement. Peter Petrovich paused, waited, but as nothing followed, he went on: " ... Any minute. I have found an apartment for when they arrive." "Where?" asked Raskolnikov weakly. "Very near here, in Bakaleyev house." "That in Voskresensky," put in Razumikhin. "There are two floors there which are let by a merchant called Yushin; I've been there." "Yes, rooms . . . " "A disgusting place filthy, stinking and, what more, dubious. Things have happened there, and there are all sorts of queer people living there. And I went there to investigate a scandal. It cheap, though . . . " "I could not, of course, find out so much about it, as I am a stranger in Petersburg myself," Peter Petrovich replied sulkily. "However, the two rooms are extremely clean, and as it is going to be for such a short time . . . I have already found a permanent, that is, our future apartment," he said, addressing Raskolnikov, "and I am having it done up. And meanwhile I myself have been crammed into a room with my friend Andrei Semionovich Lebeziatnikov, in Madame Lippewechsel apartment; it was he who told me about Bakaleyev house, too . . . " "Lebeziatnikov?" said Raskolnikov slowly, as if remembering something. "Yes, Andrei Semionovich Lebeziatnikov, a clerk in the Ministry. Do you know him?" "Yes . . . no," Raskolnikov answered. "I apologize, I imagined that was the case from your inquiry. I was once his guardian . . . A very nice young man, and a progressive as well. I like to meet young people: you can learn new things from them." Luzhin looked round hopefully at them all. "How do you mean?" asked Razumikhin. "In the most serious and essential matters," Peter Petrovich replied, as though delighted by the question. "You see, it ten years since I visited Petersburg. All the novelties, reforms, ideas have reached us in the provinces, but to see it all more clearly one must be in Petersburg. And in my opinion you observe and learn most by watching the younger generation. And I confess I am delighted . . . " "At what?" "Your question is a broad one. I may be mistaken, but I think I find clearer views, more, as it were, criticism, more practicality . . . " "That true," Zossimov let drop. "Nonsense! There no practicality." Razumikhin flew at him. "Practicality is a difficult thing to find; it does not drop down from heaven. And for the last two hundred years we have been divorced from all practical life. Ideas, if you like, are fermenting," he said to Peter Petrovich, "and desire for good exists, though it in a childish form, and honesty you may find, although there are people who hijack it. Anyway, there no practicality. Practicality has to have some kind of experience behind it." "I don't agree with you," Peter Petrovich replied, with evident enjoyment. "Of course, people do get carried away and make mistakes, but you must be indulgent of that; those mistakes are merely evidence of enthusiasm for the cause and of an abnormal external environment. If little has been done, then there hasn't been the time, let alone the means. It my personal view, if you would like to know, that something has been accomplished already. New and valuable ideas, new and valuable works are circulating instead of our dreamy old romantic authors. Literature is taking on a more mature form, many unjust prejudices have been rooted up and turned into ridicule ... In a word, we have cut ourselves off irreversibly from the past, and that, to my thinking, is a great thing . . . " "He learnt it by heart to show off," Raskolnikov pronounced suddenly. "What?" asked Peter Petrovich, not catching his words; but he received no reply. "That all true," Zossimov hastily remarked. "Isn't it so?" Peter Petrovich went on, giving Zossimov a friendly glance. "You must admit," he went on, addressing Razumikhin with a shade of triumph and superiority he almost added "young man" "that there has been an advance or, as they say now, progress in the name of science and economic truth . . . " "A commonplace." "No, not a commonplace! Up until now, for instance, if I were told, ?Äòlove thy neighbor,' what came of it?" Peter Petrovich went on, perhaps too hastily. "It meant I had to tear my coat in half to share it with my neighbor and we both were left half naked. As the Russian proverb says, ?Äòcatch several hares and you won't catch one.' Science now tells us, love yourself above everyone else, for everything in the world relies on self-interest. You love yourself and manage your own affairs properly and your coat remains whole. Economic truth adds that the better private affairs are organized in society the more whole coats, so to speak the firmer its foundations and the better organized common welfare shall be. Therefore, in acquiring wealth solely and exclusively for myself, I am acquiring, so to speak, for everyone, and helping to get my neighbor a little more than a torn coat; and that is not because of my private, personal liberality, but because of a general advance. The idea is simple, but unhappily it has been a long time reaching us because we have been hindered by idealism and sentimentality. And yet very little intelligence is needed to perceive it . . . " "Excuse me, I've very little intelligence myself," Razumikhin cut in sharply, "so let drop it. I began this discussion with a purpose, but I've grown so sick during the last three years of chattering to amuse myself, of constantly pouring forth commonplaces, which are always the same, that I blush even when other people talk like that. You are in a hurry, no doubt, to exhibit your acquirements; and I don't blame you, it forgivable. I only wanted to find out what sort of man you are, because so many unscrupulous people have got hold of the progressive cause recently and have distorted it in their own interests to such an extent that the whole cause has been dragged through the mire. That enough!" "Excuse me, sir," said Luzhin, offended, and speaking with excessive dignity. "Do you mean to suggest so improperly that I too . . . " "Oh, sir . . . how could I? . . . Come on, that enough," Razumikhin concluded, and he turned abruptly to Zossimov to continue their previous conversation. Peter Petrovich was sensible enough to accept this denial. He made up his mind to take leave in another minute or two. "I trust our acquaintance," he said, addressing Raskolnikov, "may, upon your recovery and in view of the circumstances, become closer . . . Above all, I hope you return to health . . . " Raskolnikov did not even turn his head. Peter Petrovich began getting up from his chair. "One of her customers must have killed her," Zossimov declared. "Not a doubt," replied Razumikhin. "Porfiry hasn't given me his opinion, but he examining everyone who left pledges with her." "Examining them?" Raskolnikov asked aloud. "Yes. What then?" "Nothing." "How does he get hold of them?" asked Zossimov. "Koch has put forward some of their names, other names are on the wrappers of the pledges and some have come forward themselves." "It must have been a cunning, experienced criminal! The boldness of it! The coolness!" "That just what it wasn't!" interposed Razumikhin. "That what throws you all off the scent. I don't think he cunning or experienced; this was probably his first crime! Assuming the criminal planned it all out doesn't work. Suppose he inexperienced: it clear that the only thing which saved him was chance and chance can do anything. Perhaps he didn't even foresee any obstacles! What did he do? He took jewels worth ten or twenty rubles, stuffed his pockets with them, ransacked the old woman trunk, her rags and they found fifteen hundred rubles, besides notes, in a box in the top drawer of the chest! He didn't know how to rob anyone; he could only carry out the murder. It was his first crime, I'm telling you, his first crime; he lost his head. He got off because he was lucky, not because he was experienced!" "You are talking about the murder of the old pawnbroker, I believe?" Peter Petrovich put in, addressing Zossimov. He was standing, hat and gloves in hand, but before departing he felt disposed to throw off a few more intellectual phrases. He was evidently anxious to make a favorable impression and his vanity overcame his good sense. "Yes. You've heard about it?" "Oh, yes, being in the neighborhood." "Do you know the details?" "I can't say that; but there another circumstance which interests me about the case the whole question, so to say. Not to speak of the fact that crime has been greatly on the increase among the lower classes during the last five years, not to speak of the cases of robbery and arson everywhere what strikes me as the strangest thing is that even on the upper rungs of the social ladder crime is increasing proportionately. In one place you hear about a student robbing the mail on the high road; in another place high-class people forge false banknotes; in Moscow a whole gang has recently been caught forging lottery tickets, and one of the ringleaders was a lecturer in universal history; then one of our diplomats abroad was murdered for some obscure motive of gain . . . And if this old woman, the pawnbroker, has been murdered by member of the higher classes peasants, after all, don't pawn gold trinkets how are we to explain this demoralization of the civilized part of our society?" "There have been many economic changes," put in Zossimov. "How can we explain it?" Razumikhin caught him up. "Perhaps it happening because we are totally impractical." "How do you mean?" "How did your lecturer in Moscow reply when he was asked why he was forging notes? ?ÄòEverybody is getting rich one way or another, so I want to hurry up and get rich too.' I don't remember the exact words, but the upshot was that he wants money for nothing, without waiting or working! We've got used to having everything ready-made for us, from walking on crutches to chewing our food. Then the great moment26 arrived, and everyone showed their true colors." "But morality? And, so to speak, principles . . . " "But why do you worry about it?" Raskolnikov interposed suddenly. "It in accordance with your theory!" "In accordance with my theory?" "Well, if you carry out logically the theory you were advocating just now, it follows that people may be killed . . . " "My God!" cried Luzhin. "No, that not true," put in Zossimov. Raskolnikov lay with a white face and twitching upper lip, breathing painfully. "There a measure in all things," Luzhin continued with an air of superiority. "Economic ideas are not an incitement to murder, and you only have to suppose . . . " "And is it true," Raskolnikov interposed once more suddenly, again in a voice quivering with fury and delight in insulting him, "is it true that you told your fianc?(c)e . . . within an hour of her acceptance, that what pleased you most . . . was that she was a beggar . . . because it was better to raise a wife from poverty, so that you could have complete control over her, and reproach her because she is dependent on your charitable donations?" "My God," Luzhin cried furiously and irritably, crimson with confusion, "you have entirely distorted my words! Excuse me, allow me to assure you that the report which has reached you or, rather, has been conveyed to you, has no foundation in the truth, and I . . . suspect who . . . in a word . . . this arrow . . . in a word, your mother . . . She seemed to me in other things, with all her excellent qualities, a little high-flown and romantic . . . But I was a thousand miles from thinking that she would misunderstand and misrepresent things so willfully . . . And in fact . . . in fact . . . " "I tell you what," cried Raskolnikov, raising himself on his pillow and fixing his piercing, glittering eyes upon him, "I tell you what." "What?" Luzhin stood still, waiting with a defiant and offended face. Silence lasted for some seconds. "If ever again . . . you dare to mention a single word . . . about my mother . . . I shall send you flying down the stairs!" "What the matter with you?" cried Razumikhin. "So that how it is?" Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip. "Let me tell you, sir," he began deliberately, making the greatest possible effort to restrain himself but breathing hard, "from the moment I set eyes on you, I could see that you disliked me, but I remained here on purpose to find out more. I could forgive a great deal in a sick man and a connection, but you . . . never after this . . . " "I am not ill," cried Raskolnikov. "So much the worse ... " "Go to hell!" But Luzhin was already leaving without finishing his speech, squeezing between the table and the chair; Razumikhin got up this time to let him past. Without glancing at anyone, and not even nodding to Zossimov, who had for some time been making signs to him to leave the sick man alone, he went out, lifting his hat to the level of his shoulders to avoid crushing it as he stooped to go out of the door. And even the curve of his spine indicated the horrible insult he had received. "How could you how could you!" Razumikhin said, shaking his head in perplexity. "Leave me alone leave me alone, all of you!" Raskolnikov shouted in a frenzy. "Will you ever stop tormenting me? I am not afraid of you! I am not afraid of anyone, anyone now! Get away from me! I want to be alone, alone, alone!" "Come along," said Zossimov, nodding to Razumikhin. "But we can't leave him like this!" "Come along," Zossimov repeated insistently, and he went out. Razumikhin thought a minute and ran to overtake him. "It might be worse not to obey him," said Zossimov on the stairs. "He mustn't be irritated." "What the matter with him?" "If only he could get some favorable shock, that what would do it! At first he was better . . . You know he has got something on his mind! Some fixed idea weighing on him . . . he must have!" "Perhaps it that man, Peter Petrovich. From his conversation it seems he is going to marry his sister, and that he had received a letter about it just before his illness . . . " "Yes, damn it! He may have completely wrecked the case. But have you noticed, he doesn't take any interest in anything, he doesn't respond to anything except one point he seems excited about the murder?" "Yes, yes," Razumikhin agreed, "I noticed that, too. He is interested, frightened. It gave him a shock on the day he was ill in the police office; he fainted." "Tell me more about that this evening and I'll tell you something afterwards. He interests me a lot! In half an hour I'll go and see him again . . . There'll be no inflammation though." "Thanks! And I'll wait with Pashenka in the meanwhile and keep watch over him through Nastasia . . . " Raskolnikov, left alone, looked with impatience and misery at Nastasia, but she stayed. "Don't you want some tea now?" she asked. "Later! I am sleepy! Leave me be." He turned abruptly to the wall, and Nastasia went out. CHAPTER SIX BUT AS SOON AS she went out, he got up, latched the door, undid the parcel which Razumikhin had brought in that evening and started dressing. Curiously, he seemed all at once to have become perfectly calm not a trace of his recent delirium, nor of the panic that had haunted him of late. It was the first moment of a strange and sudden peace. His movements were precise and definite; there was even a firm purpose to them. "Today, today," he muttered to himself. He understood that he was still weak, but his intense spiritual concentration gave him strength and self-confidence. He hoped, moreover, that he would not fall down in the street. When he had dressed in entirely new clothes, he looked at the money lying on the table, and after a moment thought put it in his pocket. It was twenty-five rubles. He also took all of the copper change from the ten rubles spent by Razumikhin on the clothes. Then he softly unlatched the door, went out, slipped downstairs and glanced in at the open kitchen door. Nastasia was standing with her back to him, blowing up the landlady samovar. She heard nothing. Who would have dreamed that he would go out? A minute later he was in the street. It was nearly eight o'clock; the sun was setting. It was as stifling as before, but he eagerly drank in the stinking, dusty town air. His head felt very dizzy; a sort of savage energy gleamed suddenly in his feverish eyes and in his wasted, pale yellow face. He did not know and did not think where he was going; he had one thought alone, "that all this must be ended today, once and for all, immediately, that he would not return home without it, because he would not go on living like that." How, what to put an end to? He had no idea; he did not even want to think about it. He drove away thought; thought tortured him. All he knew, all he felt was that everything must be changed "one way or another," he repeated with desperate and immovable self-confidence and determination. Out of old habit he took a walk in the direction of the Haymarket. A dark-haired young man with a barrel organ was standing in the road in front of a little store and was grinding out a very sentimental song. He was with a fifteen-year-old girl, who stood on the pavement in front of him. She was dressed up in a crinoline, a mantle and a straw hat with a flame-colored feather in it, all very old and shabby. In a strong and reasonably pleasant voice, cracked and coarsened by street music, she was singing in hope of getting a copper from the store. Raskolnikov joined two or three listeners, took out a five kopeck piece and put it in the girl hand. She broke off abruptly on a sentimental high note, shouted sharply to the organ grinder "Come on," and both moved on to the next store. "Do you like street music?" said Raskolnikov, addressing a middle-aged man standing idly by him. The man looked at him, startled and curious. "I love to hear singing accompanied by a street organ," said Raskolnikov, and his manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject "I like it on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings they must be damp when all the passersby have pale green, sickly faces, or better still when wet snow is falling straight down, when there no wind you know what I mean? and the street lamps shine through it . . . " "I don't know . . . Excuse me . . . " muttered the stranger, frightened by the question and Raskolnikov strange manner, and he crossed over to the other side of the street. Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out at the corner of the Haymarket, where the salesman and his wife had talked with Lizaveta; but they were not there now. Recognizing the place, he stopped, looked round and addressed a young fellow in a red shirt who stood gaping before a corn chandler store. "Isn't there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this corner?" "All sorts of people keep booths here," answered the young man, glancing at Raskolnikov with a superior air. "What his name?" "What he was christened." "Aren't you a Zaraisky man, too? Which province?" The young man looked at Raskolnikov again. "It not a province, your Excellency, it a district. Kindly forgive me, your Excellency!" "Is that a tavern at the top there?" "Yes, it an eating-house and there a billiard-room and you'll find princesses there too . . . La-la!" Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner there was a dense crowd of peasants. He pushed his way into the thickest part of it, looking at the faces. He felt an inexplicable inclination to enter into conversation with people. But the peasants took no notice of him; they were all shouting in groups. He stood and thought a little and took a turning to the right in the direction of V. He had often crossed that little street which turns at an angle, leading from the market-place to Sadovy Street. Recently he had often felt drawn to wander about this district when he felt depressed, so that he might feel even more so. Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. On the bend there is a large block of buildings, entirely let out to liquor stores and eating-houses; women were continually running in and out, bare-headed and in their indoor clothes. Here and there they gathered in groups, on the pavement, especially around the entrances to various festive establishments on the lower floors. From one of these a loud din, sounds of singing, the tinkling of a guitar and shouts of merriment, floated into the street. A crowd of women were thronging round the door; some were sitting on the steps, others on the pavement, others were standing talking. A drunken soldier, smoking a cigarette, was walking near them in the road, swearing; he seemed to be trying to find his way somewhere, but had forgotten where. One beggar was quarrelling with another, and a man, dead drunk, was lying right across the road. Raskolnikov joined the throng of women, who were talking in husky voices. They were bare-headed and wore cotton dresses and goatskin shoes. There were women of forty and some not more than seventeen; almost all had blackened eyes. He felt strangely attracted by the singing and all the noise and uproar in the saloon below . . . Someone could be heard dancing frantically inside, marking time with his heels to the sounds of the guitar and of a thin falsetto voice singing a jaunty air. He listened intently, gloomily and dreamily, bending down at the entrance and peeping inquisitively in from the pavement. "Oh, my handsome soldier Don't beat me for nothing," trilled the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov felt a great desire to make out what he was singing, as though everything depended on that. "Shall I go in?" he thought. "They're laughing. Because they're drinking. Shall I get drunk?" "Won't you come in?" one of the women asked him. Her voice was still musical and less thick than the others, she was young and not repulsive the only one of the group. "She pretty," he said, drawing himself up and looking at her. She smiled, much pleased at the compliment. "You're very nice looking yourself," she said. "Isn't he thin though!" observed another woman in a deep bass. "Have you just come out of a hospital?" "They're all generals' daughters, it seems, but they have all snub noses," interposed a tipsy peasant with a sly smile on his face, wearing a loose coat. "See how jolly they are." "Go along with you!" "I'll go, sweetie!" And he darted down into the saloon below. Raskolnikov moved on. "Hey, sir," the girl shouted after him. "What is it?" She hesitated. "I'll always be pleased to spend an hour with you, kind gentleman, but now I feel shy. Give me six kopecks for a drink, there a nice young man!" Raskolnikov gave her what came first fifteen kopecks. "Ah, what a good-natured gentleman!" "What your name?" "Ask for Duclida." "Well, that too much," one of the women observed, shaking her head at Duclida. "I don't know how you can ask like that. I believe I should drop with shame . . . " Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a pock-marked wench of thirty, covered with bruises, with her upper lip swollen. She made her criticism quietly and earnestly. "Where is it," thought Raskolnikov. "Where is it I've read that someone condemned to death says or thinks, an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high rock, on such a narrow ledge that he'd only got room to stand, with the ocean, everlasting darkness, everlasting solitude, everlasting tempest around him, if he had to remain standing on a square yard of space all his life, a thousand years, eternity, it were better to live like that than to die at once! Only to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be! . . . How true it is! Good God, how true! Man is a vile creature! . . . And vile is he who calls man vile for that," he added a moment later. He went into another street. "Bah, the Crystal Palace! Razumikhin was just talking about the Crystal Palace. But what the hell did I want? Yes, the newspapers . . . Zossimov said he'd read it in the papers. Have you got a copy of the papers?" he asked, going into a very spacious and definitely clean restaurant, consisting of several rooms, which were however rather empty. Two or three people were drinking tea, and in a room further away were four men drinking champagne. Raskolnikov thought that Zametov was one of them, but he could not be sure at that distance. "What if it is!" he thought. "Will you have vodka?" asked the waiter. "Give me some tea and bring me the papers, the old ones for the last five days and I'll give you something." "Yes, sir, here today . No vodka?" The old newspapers and the tea were brought. Raskolnikov sat down and began to look through them. "Oh, damn . . . these are the items of intelligence. An accident on a staircase, spontaneous combustion of a storekeeper from alcohol, a fire in Peski . . . a fire in the Petersburg quarter . . . another fire in the Petersburg quarter . . . and another fire in the Petersburg quarter . . . Ah, here it is!" He found at last what he was seeking and began to read it. The lines danced before his eyes, but he read it all and began eagerly seeking later additions in the following numbers. His hands shook with nervous impatience as he turned the sheets. Suddenly someone sat down beside him at his table. He looked up, it was the head clerk Zametov, looking just the same, with the rings on his fingers and the watch-chain, with the curly, black hair, parted and pomaded, with the smart waistcoat, shabby coat and dubious dress. He was in a good mood; at least, he was smiling very merrily and good-humoredly. His dark face was rather flushed from the champagne he had drunk. "What, you here?" he began in surprise, speaking as though he'd known him all his life. "Razumikhin told me only yesterday you were unconscious. How strange! Did you know I've been to see you?" Raskolnikov knew he would come up to him. He laid aside the papers and turned to Zametov. There was a smile on his lips, and a new shade of irritable impatience was apparent in it. "I know you have," he answered. "I've heard. You looked for my sock . . . And you know Razumikhin has lost his heart to you? He says you've been with him to Luise Ivanovna , you know the woman you tried to befriend, for whom you winked to the Explosive Lieutenant and he wouldn't understand. Do you remember? How could he fail to understand it was quite clear, wasn't it?" "What a hothead he is!" "The explosive one?" "No, your friend Razumikhin." "You must have a jolly life, Mr. Zametov; free entry to the best places. Who been pouring champagne into you just now?" "We've just been . . . having a drink together . . . You talk about pouring it into me!" "As a fee! You profit by everything!" Raskolnikov laughed, "it all right, my friend," he added, slapping Zametov on the shoulder. "I'm not saying that because I'm angry, but in a friendly way, for sport, as that workman of yours said when he was scuffling with Dmitri, in the case of the old woman . . . " "How do you know about it?" "Perhaps I know more about it than you do." "How strange you are . . . you must still be very unwell. You shouldn't have come out." "Oh, do I seem strange to you?" "Yes. What are you doing, reading the papers?" "Yes." "There a lot about the fires." "No, I'm not reading about the fires." Here he looked mysteriously at Zametov; his lips were twisted again in a mocking smile. "No, I am not reading about the fires," he went on, winking at Zametov. "But confess now, my friend, you're pretty anxious to know what I am reading about?" "I am not in the least. Mayn't I ask a question? Why do you keep on . . . ?" "Listen, you are a man of culture and education?" "I was in the sixth class at the gymnasium," said Zametov with some dignity. "Sixth class! Ah, my little sparrow! With your parting and your rings you're a lucky man. God, what a charming lad!" Here Raskolnikov broke into a nervous laugh right in Zametov face. The latter drew back, more amazed than offended. "Pah, how strange you are!" Zametov repeated very seriously. "I can't help thinking you are still delirious." "I am delirious? You are lying, my sparrow! So I am strange? You find me curious, do you?" "Yes, curious." "Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was looking for? See what a lot of papers I've made them bring me. Suspicious?" "Well, what is it?" "You prick up your ears?" "How do you mean prick up my ears?" "I'll explain that afterwards, but now, my friend, I declare to you ... no, better ?ÄòI confess' . . . No, that not right either; ?ÄòI make a deposition and you take it.' I depose that I was reading, that I was looking and searching . . . " he screwed up his eyes and paused. "I was searching and came here on purpose to do it for news of the murder of the old pawnbroker woman," he articulated at last, almost in a whisper, bringing his face extremely close to Zametov . Zametov looked at him steadily, without moving or drawing his face away. What struck Zametov afterwards as the strangest part of it all was that silence followed for exactly a minute, and that they gazed at one another all the while. "What if you have been reading about it?" he cried at last, perplexed and impatient. "That no business of mine! What of it?" "The same old woman," Raskolnikov went on in the same whisper, paying no attention to Zametov explanation, "who you were talking about in the police office, you remember, when I fainted. Well, do you understand now?" "What do you mean? Understand . . . what?" Zametov brought out, almost alarmed. Raskolnikov set and earnest face was suddenly transformed, and he suddenly went off into the same nervous laugh as before, as though utterly unable to restrain himself. And in a flash he recalled with extraordinary vividness of sensation a moment in the recent past, that moment when he stood with the axe behind the door, while the latch trembled and the men outside swore and shook it, and he had a sudden desire to shout at them, to swear at them, to put out his tongue at them, to mock them, to laugh, and laugh, and laugh! "You are either mad, or . . . " began Zametov, and he broke off, as though stunned by the idea that had suddenly flashed into his mind. "Or? Or what? What? Come, tell me!" "Nothing," said Zametov, getting angry, "it all nonsense!" Both were silent. After his sudden fit of laughter Raskolnikov became suddenly thoughtful and melancholy. He put his elbow on the table and leaned his head on his hand. He seemed to have completely forgotten Zametov. The silence lasted for some time. "Why don't you drink your tea? It getting cold," said Zametov. "What! Tea? Oh, yes . . . " Raskolnikov sipped the glass, put a morsel of bread in his mouth and, suddenly looking at Zametov, seemed to remember everything and pulled himself together. At the same moment his face resumed its original mocking expression. He went on drinking tea. "There have been many of these crimes recently," said Zametov. "Only the other day I read in the Moscow News that a whole gang of false coiners had been caught in Moscow. It was a real club. They used to forge tickets!" "Oh, but that was a long time ago! I read about it a month ago," Raskolnikov answered calmly. "So you think they're criminals?" he added smiling. "Of course they're criminals." "Them? They are children, simpletons, not criminals! Fifty people meeting for a purpose like that what an idea! Three would be too many, and then they want to have more faith in one another than in themselves! One of them just has to blab when he drunk and it all collapses. Simpletons! They engaged untrustworthy people to change the notes what a thing to trust to a casual stranger! Well, let us suppose that these simpletons succeed and each makes a million, and what follows for the rest of their lives? Each is dependent on the others for the rest of his life! Better hang yourself at once! And they didn't know how to change the notes either; the man who changed the notes took five thousand rubles, and his hands trembled. He counted the first four thousand, but did not count the fifth thousand he was in such a hurry to get the money into his pocket and run away. Of course he roused suspicion. And the whole thing came to a crash through one fool! Is it possible?" "That his hands trembled?" observed Zametov, "yes, that quite possible. That I feel quite sure is possible. Sometimes people can't stand things." "Can't stand that?" "Could you stand it then? No, I couldn't. For the sake of a hundred rubles, to face such a terrible experience! To go with false notes into a bank where it their business to spot that sort of thing! No, I wouldn't have the nerve to do it. Would you?" Raskolnikov had an intense desire again to stick his tongue out. Shivers kept running down his spine. "I would do it differently," Raskolnikov began. "This is how I would change the notes: I'd count the first thousand three or four times backwards and forwards, look at every note and then start on the second thousand; I'd count that halfway through and then hold some fifty ruble note to the light, then turn it, then hold it to the light again to see whether it was a good one. ?ÄòI'm afraid,' I would say. ?ÄòA relation of mine lost twenty-five rubles the other day because of a false note,' and then I'd tell them the whole story. And after I began counting the third, ?Äòno, excuse me,' I would say, ?ÄòI think I made a mistake in the seventh hundred in that second thousand, I am not sure.' And so I would give up the third thousand and go back to the second and so on to the end. And when I had finished, I'd pick out one from the fifth and one from the second thousand and take them again to the light and ask again ?Äòchange them, please,' and put the clerk into such a stew that he would not know how to get rid of me. When I'd finished and had gone out, I'd come back, ?ÄòNo, excuse me,' and ask for some explanation. That how I'd do it." "Pah, what terrible things you say!" said Zametov, laughing. "But all that is only talk. When it came down to doing it you'd make a slip. I believe that even an experienced, desperate man cannot always count on himself, much less you and I. To take an example closer to home that old woman who was murdered in our district. The murderer seems to have been a desperate man, he risked everything in open daylight, was saved by a miracle but his hands shook, too. He didn't manage to rob the place, he couldn't stand it. That was clear from the . . . " Raskolnikov seemed offended. "Clear? Why don't you catch him then?" he shouted at Zametov mockingly. "Well, they will catch him." "Who? You? Do you think you could catch him? You've got a tough job on your hands! A great point for you is whether someone is spending money or not. If someone has no money and suddenly starts spending, they must be guilty. Any child can mislead you." "The fact is they always do that, though," answered Zametov. "A man will commit a clever murder, risk his life and then at once go drinking in a tavern. They are caught spending money, they are not all as cunning as you are. You wouldn't go to a tavern, of course?" Raskolnikov frowned and looked steadily at Zametov. "You seem to enjoy the subject and would like to know how I would behave in that case, too?" he asked with displeasure. "I would like to," Zametov answered firmly and seriously. His words and looks were becoming a little too earnest. "Very much?" "Very much!" "All right then. This is how I would behave," Raskolnikov began, again bringing his face close to Zametov , again staring at him and speaking in a whisper; the latter started shuddering. "This is what I would have done. I would have taken the money and jewels, I would have walked out of there and have gone straight to some deserted place with fences round it and scarcely anyone to be seen, some kitchen garden or place of that sort. I would have found beforehand some stone weighing a hundredweight or more which had been lying in the corner from the time the house was built. I would lift that stone there would be sure to be a hollow under it, and I would put the jewels and money in that hole. Then I'd roll the stone back so that it would look as before, would press it down with my foot and walk away. And for a year or two, three maybe, I wouldn't touch it. And, well, they could search! There'd be no trace." "You are a madman," said Zametov, and for some reason he too spoke in a whisper, and moved away from Raskolnikov, whose eyes were glittering. He had turned extremely pale and his upper lip was twitching and quivering. He bent down as close as possible to Zametov, and his lips began to move without uttering a word. This lasted for half a minute; he knew what he was doing, but could not restrain himself. The terrible word trembled on his lips, like the latch on that door; in another moment it will break out, in another moment he will let it go, he will speak out. "And what if it was I who murdered the old woman and Lizaveta?" he said suddenly and realized what he had done. Zametov looked wildly at him and turned white as the tablecloth. His face had a contorted smile on it. "But is it possible?" he brought out faintly. Raskolnikov looked angrily at him. "Own up, you believed it, yes, you did?" "Not at all, I believe it less than ever now," Zametov cried hastily. "I've caught my sparrow! So you did believe it before, if now you believe it less than ever?" "Not at all," cried Zametov, obviously embarrassed. "Have you been frightening me to lead up to this?" "You don't believe it then? What were you talking about behind my back when I went out of the police office? And why did the Explosive Lieutenant question me after I fainted? Hey, there," he shouted to the waiter, getting up and taking his cap, "how much?" "Thirty kopecks," the latter replied, running up. "And there is twenty kopecks for vodka. See what a lot of money!" he held out his shaking hand to Zametov with notes in it. "Red notes and blue, twenty-five rubles. Where did I get them? And where did my new clothes come from? You know I hadn't a kopeck. You've cross-examined my landlady, I'll be bound ... Well, that that! We've talked enough! Goodbye!" He went out, trembling all over from a sort of wild hysterical sensation, in which there was an element of unbearable ecstasy. Yet he was gloomy and horribly tired. His face was twisted as if he had just had a fit. His fatigue increased rapidly. Any shock, any irritating sensation stimulated and revived his energies at once, but his strength failed just as quickly when the stimulus was removed. Zametov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same place, deep in thought. Raskolnikov had unwittingly worked a revolution in his brain on a certain point and had made up his mind for him conclusively. "Ilia Petrovich is a blockhead," he decided. Raskolnikov had hardly opened the door of the restaurant when he bumped into Razumikhin on the steps. They did not see each other until they almost knocked against each other. For a moment they stood looking each other up and down. Razumikhin was greatly astounded, then anger, real anger gleamed fiercely in his eyes. "So here you are!" he shouted at the top of his voice "you ran away from your bed! And here I've been looking for you under the sofa! We went up to the garret. I almost beat Nastasia because of you. And here he is after all. Rodia! What is the meaning of it? Tell me the whole truth! Confess! Do you hear?" "It means that I'm sick to death of all of you and I want to be alone," Raskolnikov answered calmly. "Alone? When you are not able to walk, when your face is as white as a sheet and you are gasping for breath! Idiot! ... What have you been doing in the Crystal Palace? Tell me now!" "Let me go!" said Raskolnikov and tried to pass him. This was too much for Razumikhin; he gripped him firmly by the shoulder. "Let you go? You dare tell me to let you go? Do you know what I'll do with you? I'll pick you up, tie you up in a bundle, carry you home under my arm and lock you up!" "Listen, Razumikhin," Raskolnikov began quietly, apparently calm, "can't you see that I don't want your benevolence? A strange desire you have to shower benefits on a man who . . . curses them, who feels them to be a burden, in fact! Why did you seek me out at the beginning of my illness? Maybe I was very happy to die. Didn't I tell you plainly enough today that you were torturing me, that I was ... sick of you! You seem to want to torture people! I assure you that all of this is seriously hindering my recovery, because it continually irritating me. You saw Zossimov went away just now to avoid irritating me. You leave me alone too, for goodness' sake! What right do you have to keep me by force? Can't you see that I am in possession of all my faculties now? How can I persuade you not to persecute me with your kindness? I may be ungrateful, I may be mean, but just let me be, for God sake, let me be! Let me be, let me be!" He began calmly, gloating beforehand over the venomous phrases he was about to utter, but finished, panting for breath, in a frenzy, as he had been with Luzhin. Razumikhin stood a moment, thought and let his hand drop. "Well, go to hell then," he said gently and thoughtfully. "Stay here," he roared, as Raskolnikov was about to move. "Listen to me. Let me tell you, that you are all a set of babbling, posing idiots! If you've got any little trouble you brood over it like a hen over an egg. And you are plagiarists even in that! There isn't a sign of independent life in you! You're made of spermaceti ointment and you've got lymph in your veins instead of blood. I don't trust any of you! When anything happens the first thing all of you do is fail to behave like human beings! Stop!" he cried with redoubled fury, noticing that Raskolnikov was again making a movement, "hear me out! You know I'm having a house-warming this evening, I dare say they've arrived by now, but I left my uncle there I just ran in to receive the guests. And if you weren't a fool, a common fool, a perfect fool, if you were an original instead of a translation . . . you see, Rodia, I recognize you're a clever fellow, but you're a fool! And if you weren't a fool you'd come round to me this evening instead of wearing out your boots in the street! Since you've gone out, there no help for it! I'd give you a snug easy chair, my landlady has one . . . a cup of tea, company . . . Or you could lie on the sofa in any case, you would be with us . . . Zossimov will be there too. Will you come?" "No." "R-rubbish!" Razumikhin shouted, his patience lost. "How do you know? You can't answer for yourself! You don't know anything about it . . . Thousands of times I've fought tooth and nail with people and run back to them afterwards ... You feel ashamed and go back to them! So remember, Potchinkov house on the third storey . . . " "Razumikhin, you'd let anybody beat you from sheer benevolence." "Beat? Whom? Me? I'd twist his nose off at the idea of it! Potchinkov house, 47, Babushkin apartment . . . " "I shan't come, Razumikhin." Raskolnikov turned and walked away. "I bet you will," Razumikhin shouted after him. "I refuse to know you if you don't! Stop, hey, is Zametov in there?" "Yes." "Did you see him?" "Yes." "Talked to him?" "Yes." "What about? Damn you, don't tell me then. Potchinkov house, 47, Babushkin apartment, remember!" Raskolnikov walked on and turned the corner into Sadovy Street. Razumikhin looked after him thoughtfully. Then with a wave of his hand he went into the house but stopped short of the stairs. "Damn it," he went on almost aloud. "He talked sensibly but yet ... I am a fool! As if madmen didn't talk sensibly! And this was just what Zossimov seemed afraid of." He struck his finger on his forehead. "What if . . . how could I let him go off alone? He may drown himself . . . Ah, what a blunder! I can't." And he ran back to overtake Raskolnikov, but there was no trace of him. With a curse he returned swiftly to the Crystal Palace to question Zametov. Raskolnikov walked straight to X____ Bridge, stood in the middle and, leaning both elbows on the rail, stared into the distance. On parting with Razumikhin, he felt so much weaker that he could scarcely reach it. He longed to sit or lie down somewhere in the street. Bending over the water, he gazed mechanically at the last pink flush of the sunset, at the row of houses growing dark in the gathering twilight, at one distant attic window on the left bank, flashing as though on fire in the last rays of the setting sun, at the darkening water of the canal, and the water seemed to catch his attention. At last red circles flashed before his eyes, the houses seemed to be moving, the passersby, the canal banks, the carriages all danced before his eyes. Suddenly he started, saved again perhaps from fainting by an uncanny and hideous sight. He became aware of someone standing to his right; he looked and saw a tall woman with a kerchief on her head, with a long, yellow, wasted face and red sunken eyes. She was looking straight at him, but she obviously saw nothing and recognized no-one. Suddenly she leaned her right hand on the parapet, lifted her right leg over the railing, then her left and threw herself into the canal. The filthy water parted and swallowed up its victim for a moment, but an instant later the drowning woman floated to the surface, moving slowly with the current, her head and legs in the water, her skirt billowing like a balloon over her back. "A woman drowning! A woman drowning!" shouted dozens of voices; people ran up, both banks were thronged with spectators, on the bridge people crowded around Raskolnikov, pressing up behind him. "Mercy! It our Afrosinia!" a woman cried tearfully close by. "Mercy! Save her! Good people, pull her out!" "A boat, a boat" was shouted in the crowd. But there was no need of a boat; a policeman ran down the steps to the canal, threw off his overcoat and his boots and rushed into the water. It was easy to reach her; she floated within a couple of yards of the steps, he caught hold of her clothes with his right hand and with his left seized a pole which a comrade held out to him; the drowning woman was pulled out at once. They laid her on the granite pavement of the embankment. She soon recovered consciousness, raised her head, sat up and began sneezing and coughing, stupidly wiping her wet dress with her hands. She said nothing. "She drunk out of her senses," the same woman voice wailed at her side. "Out of her senses. The other day she tried to hang herself, we cut her down. I ran out to the store just now, left my little girl to look after her and here she is, in trouble again! A neighbor, we live close by, the second house from the end, over there . . . " The crowd broke up. The police still remained around the woman, someone mentioned the police station . . . Raskolnikov looked on with a strange sensation of indifference and apathy. He felt disgusted. "No, that loathsome . . . water . . . it not good enough," he muttered to himself. "Nothing will come of it," he added, "no use to wait. What about the police office . . . ? And why isn't Zametov at the police office? The police office is open until ten o'clock . . . " He turned his back to the railing and looked about him. "Very well then!" he said resolutely; he moved from the bridge and walked in the direction of the police office. His heart felt hollow and empty. He did not want to think. Even his depression had passed, there was not a trace now of the energy with which he had set out "to make an end of it all." Complete apathy had succeeded it. "Well, it a way out of it," he thought, walking slowly and listlessly along the canal bank. "Anyway I'll put an end to it, because I want to . . . But is it a way out? What does it matter! There'll be the square yard of space ha! But what an end! Is it really the end? Shall I tell them or not? Ah . . . damn! How tired I am! If I could find somewhere to sit or lie down soon! What I am most ashamed of is the fact that it so stupid. But I don't care about that either! What idiotic ideas come into my head." To reach the police office he had to go straight forward and take the second turning to the left. It was only a few yards away. But at the first turning he stopped and, after a minute thought, turned into a side street and went two streets out of his way, possibly without any purpose, or possibly to delay a minute and gain time. He walked, looking at the ground; suddenly someone seemed to whisper in his ear. He lifted his head and saw that he was standing at the gate of the house. He had not passed it, he had not been near it since that evening. An overwhelming inexplicable prompting drew him on. He went into the house, passed through the gateway, then into the first entrance on the right, and began mounting the familiar staircase to the fourth floor. The narrow, steep stairway was very dark. He stopped at each landing and looked round him with curiosity; on the first landing the framework of the window had been taken out. "That wasn't how it was then," he thought. Here was the apartment on the second floor where Nikolai and Dmitri had been working. "It shut up and the door newly painted. So they're going to rent it." Then the third floor and the fourth. "Here!" He was perplexed to find the door of the apartment wide open. There were men there, he could hear voices; he had not expected that. After brief hesitation he mounted the last stairs and went into the apartment. It, too, was being done up; there were workmen in it. This seemed to amaze him; he somehow thought he would find everything as he left it, even perhaps the corpses in the same place on the floor. And now, bare walls, no furniture; it seemed strange. He walked to the window and sat down on the window sill. There were two workmen, both young men, but one much younger than the other. They were papering the walls with a new white paper covered with lilac flowers, instead of the dirty old yellow one. Raskolnikov for some reason felt horribly annoyed by this. He looked at the new paper with dislike, as though he felt sorry to have it all changed. The workmen had obviously stayed beyond their time and now they were hurriedly rolling up their paper and getting ready to go home. They took no notice of Raskolnikov; they were talking. Raskolnikov folded his arms and listened. "She came to me in the morning," said the elder to the younger, "very early, all dressed up. ?ÄòWhy are you preening yourself?' I said. ?ÄòI'm ready to do anything to please you, Tit Vassilich!' That one way of going about it! She was dressed up like a real fashion book!" "What a fashion book?" the younger one asked. He obviously regarded the other as an authority. "A fashion book is a lot of pictures, colored, and they come to the tailors here every Saturday, by post from abroad, to show people how to dress, men as well as women. They're pictures. The men are usually wearing fur coats and as for the ladies' fluffy stuff, they're beyond anything you can imagine." "There nothing you can't find in Petersburg," the younger cried enthusiastically, "except father and mother, there everything!" "Except them, there everything to be found, my friend," the elder declared pompously. Raskolnikov got up and walked into the other room where the strong box, the bed, and the chest of drawers had been; the room seemed to him very tiny without furniture in it. The paper was the same; the paper in the corner showed where the case of icons had stood. He looked at it and went to the window. The elder workman looked at him sideways. "What do you want?" he asked suddenly. Instead of answering Raskolnikov went into the passage and pulled the bell. The same bell, the same cracked note. He rang it a second and a third time; he listened and remembered. The hideous and agonizingly fearful sensation he had felt then began to come back more and more vividly. He shuddered at every ring and it gave him more and more satisfaction. "Well, what do you want? Who are you?" the workman shouted, going out to him. Raskolnikov went inside again. "I want to rent an apartment," he said. "I am looking round." "Night not the time to look at the rooms! You ought to come up with the porter." "The floors have been washed, will they be painted?" Raskolnikov went on. "Is there no blood?" "What blood?" "The old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a real pool there." "But who are you?" the workman cried, uneasy. "Who am I?" "Yes." "You want to know? Come to the police station, I'll tell you." The workmen looked at him in amazement. "It time for us to go, we are late. Come on, Alyoshka. We've got to lock up," said the elder workman. "Very well then, come along," said Raskolnikov indifferently, and going out first, he went slowly downstairs. "Hey, porter," he cried in the gateway. At the entrance several people were standing, staring at the passersby; the two porters, a peasant woman, a man in a long coat and a few others. Raskolnikov went straight up to them. "What do you want?" asked one of the porters. "Have you been to the police office?" "I've just been there. What do you want?" "Is it open?" "Of course." "Is the assistant there?" "He was there for a while. What do you want?" Raskolnikov made no reply, but stood beside them lost in thought. "He been to look at the apartment," said the elder workman, coming forward. "Which apartment?" "Where we're at work. ?ÄòWhy have you washed away the blood?' he says. ?ÄòThere has been a murder here,' he says, ?Äòand I've come to take it.' And he began ringing at the bell, all but broke it. ?ÄòCome to the police station,' says he. ?ÄòI'll tell you everything there.' He wouldn't leave us." The porter looked at Raskolnikov, frowning and perplexed. "Who are you?" he shouted as impressively as he could. "I am Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, a former student, I live in Shil house, not far from here, apartment Number 14, ask the porter, he knows me." Raskolnikov said all this in a lazy, dreamy voice, not turning round, but looking intently into the darkening street. "Why have you been to the apartment?" "To look at it." "What is there to look at?" "Take him straight to the police station," the man in the long coat jerked in abruptly. Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his shoulder and said in the same slow, lazy tone, "Come along." "Yes, take him," the man went on more confidently. "Why was he going into that, what in his mind?" "He not drunk, but God knows what the matter with him," muttered the workman. "But what do you want?" the porter shouted again, beginning to get angry in earnest. "Why are you hanging about?" "Are you afraid of the police station then?" said Raskolnikov jeeringly. "What do you mean, afraid of it? Why are you hanging around?" "He a rogue!" shouted the peasant woman. "Why waste time talking to him?" cried the other porter, a huge peasant in a full open coat with keys on his belt. "Get out of here! He causing trouble. Get out of here!" And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder he flung him into the street. He lurched forward, but recovered his footing, looked at the spectators in silence and walked away. "He strange!" observed the workman. "There are strange people about nowadays," said the woman. "All the same, you should have taken him to the police station," said the man in the long coat. "Better have nothing to do with him," decided the big porter. "A real troublemaker! Just what he wants, but once you take him up, you won't get rid of him ... We know the sort!" "Shall I go there or not?" thought Raskolnikov, standing in the middle of the crossroads, and he looked around him, as though expecting a decisive word from someone. But no sound came, everything was dead and silent like the stones on which he walked, dead to him, to him alone . . . All at once at the end of the street, two hundred yards away, in the gathering dusk, he saw a crowd and heard people talking and shouting. In the middle of the crowd stood a carriage . . . A light gleamed in the middle of the street. "What is it?" Raskolnikov turned to the right and went up to the crowd. He seemed to clutch at everything and smiled coldly when he recognized it. He had decided to go to the police station; soon, it would be over. CHAPTER SEVEN AN ELEGANT CARRIAGE STOOD in the middle of the road with a pair of hot gray horses; there was no-one in it, and the coachman had got off his box and was standing nearby; the horses were being held by the bridle . . . A mass of people had gathered round, with policemen standing in front of them. One of them held a lighted lantern which he was turning on something lying close to the wheels. Everyone was talking, shouting, exclaiming; the coachman seemed to be at a loss and kept repeating: "What a misfortune! Lord, what a misfortune!" Raskolnikov pushed his way in as far as he could, and succeeded at last in seeing the object of the commotion and interest. On the ground a man who had been run over lay apparently unconscious and covered in blood; he was very badly dressed, but not like a workman. Blood was flowing from his head and face; his face was crushed, mutilated and disfigured. He was evidently badly injured. "Lord have mercy!" wailed the coachman, "what more could I do? If I'd been driving fast or if I hadn't shouted to him but I was going quietly, I wasn't hurrying! Everybody could see I was going along just like everybody else. People who are drunk can't walk straight, we all know that . . . I saw him crossing the street, staggering and falling almost. I shouted again and a second and a third time, then I held the horses in, but he fell straight under their feet! Either he did it on purpose or he was very drunk . . . The horses are young and take fright pretty easily . . . they started, he screamed . . . that made them worse. That how it happened!" "That just how it was," a voice in the crowd confirmed. "He shouted, that true, he shouted three times," another voice declared. "Three times it was, we all heard it," shouted a third. But the coachman was not very distressed and frightened. It was evident that the carriage belonged to a rich and important person who was waiting for it somewhere; the police, of course, were anxious to avoid upsetting his arrangements. All they had to do was to take the injured man to the police station and the hospital. No-one knew his name. Meanwhile Raskolnikov had squeezed in and stooped closer over him. The lantern suddenly lit up the unfortunate man face. He recognized him. "I know him! I know him!" he shouted, pushing to the front. "It a government clerk retired from the service, Marmeladov. He lives close by in Kozel house . . . Hurry up and get a doctor! I will pay, look." He pulled money out of his pocket and showed it to the policeman. He was violently excited. The police were glad that they had found out who the man was. Raskolnikov gave his own name and address, and, as earnestly as if it had been his father, he asked the police to carry the unconscious Marmeladov to his apartment at once. "Just here, three houses away," he said eagerly, "the house belongs to Kozel, a rich German. He was going home, no doubt drunk. I know him, he is a drunkard. He has a family there, a wife, children, he has one daughter . . . It will take time to take him to the hospital, and there is sure to be a doctor in the house. I'll pay, I'll pay! At least he will be looked after at home . . . they will help him at once. But he'll die before you get him to the hospital." He managed to slip something unseen into the policeman hand. But the thing was straightforward and legitimate, and in any case help was closer here. They lifted the injured man; people volunteered to help. Kozel house was thirty yards away. Raskolnikov walked behind, carefully holding Marmeladov head and showing the way. "This way, this way! We must take him upstairs head first. Turn round! I'll pay, I'll make it worth your while," he muttered. Katerina Ivanovna had just begun to walk to and fro in her little room from the window to the stove and back again, with her arms folded across her chest, talking to herself and coughing; she used to do this whenever she had a moment to spare. Recently she had begun to talk more than ever to her eldest girl, Polenka, a child of ten, who, though there was much she did not understand, understood very well that her mother needed her, and so always watched her with her big clever eyes and did her utmost to appear to understand. This time Polenka was undressing her little brother, who had been unwell all day and was going to bed. The boy was waiting for her to take off his shirt, which had to be washed at night. He was sitting straight and motionless on a chair, with a silent, serious face, with his legs stretched out straight before him, heels together and toes turned out. He was listening to what his mother was saying to his sister, sitting perfectly still with pouting lips and wide-open eyes, just like all good little boys have to sit when they are undressed to go to bed. A little girl, even younger, dressed literally in rags, stood at the screen, waiting for her turn. The door on to the stairs was open to relieve them a little from the clouds of tobacco smoke which floated in from the other rooms and brought on long terrible fits of coughing in the poor, tubercular woman. Katerina Ivanovna seemed to have grown even thinner during that week and the hectic flush on her face was brighter than ever. "You wouldn't believe, you can't imagine, Polenka," she said, walking about the room, "what a happy luxurious life we had in my papa house and how this drunkard has brought me, and will bring you all, to ruin! Father was a civil colonel and only a step from being a governor; everyone who came to see him said, ?ÄòWe look upon you, Ivan Mikhailovich, as our governor!' When I . . . when . . . " she coughed violently, "oh, cursed life," she cried, clearing her throat and pressing her hands to her breast, "when I . . . when at the last ball . . . at the marshal . . . Princess Bezzemelny saw me she was the one who gave me the blessing when your father and I were married, Polenka she asked at once, ?ÄòIsn't that the pretty girl who did the shawl dance at the end?' (You must mend that tear, you must take your needle and darn it as I showed you, or tomorrow cough, cough, cough he will make the hole bigger," she articulated with effort.) "Prince Shchegolskoy, a kammerjunker, had just come from Petersburg then . . . he danced the mazurka with me and wanted to make me an offer next day; but I thanked him in flattering expressions and told him that my heart had long been another . That other was your father, Polia; Father was extremely angry . . . Is the water ready? Give me the shirt, and the stockings! Lida," she said to the youngest one, "you must manage without your shirt tonight . . . and lay your stockings out with it . . . I'll wash them together . . . How come that drunken vagabond hasn't come back yet? He worn his shirt so much it looks like a dishcloth, he torn it to rags! I'd do it all together, so I don't have to work two nights running! Oh, God! (Cough, cough, cough, cough!) Again! What this?" she cried, noticing a crowd in the passage and the men who were pushing into her room, carrying a burden. "What is it? What are they bringing? Lord have mercy!" "Where should we put him?" asked the policeman, looking round when Marmeladov, unconscious and covered with blood, had been carried in. "On the sofa! Put him straight on the sofa, with his head this way," Raskolnikov showed him. "Run over in the road! Drunk!" someone shouted in the passage. Katerina Ivanovna stood, turning white and gasping for breath. The children were terrified. Little Lida screamed, rushed to Polenka and clutched at her, trembling all over. Having laid Marmeladov down, Raskolnikov flew to Katerina Ivanovna. "For God sake be calm, don't be frightened!" he said, speaking quickly, "he was crossing the road and was run over by a carriage, don't be frightened, he will come to, I told them to bring him here . . . I've been here already, you remember? He will come to; I'll pay!" "He done it this time!" Katerina Ivanovna cried despairingly and she rushed to her husband. Raskolnikov noticed at once that she was not one of those women who swoon easily. She instantly placed a pillow under the luckless man head, which no-one had thought of, and began undressing and examining him. She kept her head, forgetting herself, biting her trembling lips and stifling the screams which were ready to break from her. Raskolnikov meanwhile induced someone to run for a doctor. There was a doctor, it appeared, next door but one. "I've sent for a doctor," he kept assuring Katerina Ivanovna, "don't worry, I'll pay. Haven't you got any water? . . . and give me a napkin or a towel, anything, as quick as you can . . . He is injured, but not killed, believe me . . . We'll see what the doctor says!" Katerina Ivanovna ran to the window; there, on a broken chair in the corner, a large earthenware basin full of water had been standing, ready for her to wash her children and her husband clothing that night. Katerina Ivanovna did the washing at night at least twice a week, if not more frequently than that. The family had sunk so low that they had practically no change of clothes, and Katerina Ivanovna could not stand this absence of cleanliness and, rather than see dirt in the house, she preferred to wear herself out at night, working beyond her strength when the rest were asleep, so as to get the wet clothes hung on a line and dry by the morning. She took up the basin of water at Raskolnikov request, but almost fell down with her burden. But the latter had already succeeded in finding a towel, wetted it and begun washing the blood off Marmeladov face. Katerina Ivanovna stood by, breathing painfully and pressing her hands to her chest. She was in need of attention herself. Raskolnikov began to realize that he might have made a mistake in having the injured man brought here. The policeman, too, stood there in hesitation. "Polenka," cried Katerina Ivanovna, "run to Sonia , hurry. If you don't find her at home, tell her that her father has been run over and that she must come here at once . . . when she comes in. Run, Polenka! There, put on the shawl." "Run your fastest!" cried the little boy on the chair suddenly, after which he relapsed into the same dumb rigidity, with round eyes, his heels thrust forward and his toes spread out. Meanwhile the room had become so full of people that you could not have dropped a pin. The policemen left, all except one, who remained for a while, trying to drive out the people who came in from the stairs. Almost all Madame Lippewechsel lodgers had streamed in from the inner rooms of the apartment; at first they were squeezed together in the doorway, but afterwards they overflowed into the room. Katerina Ivanovna flew into a fury. "You might let him die in peace, at least," she shouted at the crowd, "is it a spectacle for you to gape at? With cigarettes! (Cough, cough, cough!) You might as well keep your hats on . . . And there is one in his hat! . . . Get away! You should respect the dead, at least!" Her cough choked her but her reproaches were not entirely fruitless. They evidently stood in some awe of Katerina Ivanovna. The lodgers, one after another, squeezed back into the doorway with that strange inner feeling of satisfaction which may be observed during a sudden accident, even in those nearest and dearest to the victim, from which no-one alive is exempt, even despite the sincerest sympathy and compassion. Voices outside were heard, however, talking about the hospital and saying that they'd no business to make a disturbance here. "No business to die!" cried Katerina Ivanovna, and she was rushing to the door to vent her wrath upon them, but in the doorway came face to face with Madame Lippewechsel who had only just heard of the accident and ran in to restore order. She was a particularly argumentative and irresponsible German. "Ah, my God!" she cried, clasping her hands, "your husband drunken horses have trampled! To the hospital with him! I am the landlady!" "Amalia Ludwigovna, please think about what you are saying," Katerina Ivanovna began in a superior tone of voice (she always adopted a superior tone with the landlady so that the landlady might "remember her place in society". Even now, she could not deny herself this satisfaction). "Amalia Ludwigovna . . . " "I have you once before told that you to call me Amalia Ludwigovna may not dare; I am Amalia Ivanovna." "You are not Amalia Ivanovna, you are Amalia Ludwigovna, and since I am not one of your despicable flatterers like Mr. Lebeziatnikov, who laughing behind the door at the moment" (a laugh and a shout of "they're at it again" was in fact audible at the door), "I shall always call you Amalia Ludwigovna, though I fail to understand why you dislike that name. You can see for yourself what has happened to Semion Zakharovich; he is dying. I beg you to close that door at once and let no-one in. Let him at least die in peace! Or I warn you the Governor-General himself shall be informed of your conduct tomorrow. The prince knew me as a girl; he remembers Semion Zakharovich well and has often given him generous donations. Everyone knows that Semion Zakharovich had many friends and protectors, whom he abandoned himself from an honorable pride, knowing his unfortunate weakness, but now" (she pointed to Raskolnikov) "a generous young man has come to our assistance, who has wealth and connections and whom Semion Zakharovich has known since he was a child. You may rest assured, Amalia Ludwigovna . . . " All this was uttered with extreme rapidity, getting quicker and quicker, but a cough suddenly cut short Katerina Ivanovna eloquence. At that instant the dying man recovered consciousness and uttered a groan; she ran to him. The injured man opened his eyes and without recognition or understanding gazed at Raskolnikov who was bending over him. He drew deep, slow, painful breaths; blood oozed at the corners of his mouth and drops of perspiration came out on his forehead. Not recognizing Raskolnikov, he began looking round uneasily. Katerina Ivanovna looked at him with a sad but stern face, and tears trickled from her eyes. "My God! His whole chest is crushed! How he is bleeding," she said in despair. "We must take off his clothes. Turn a little, Semion Zakharovich, if you can," she shouted to him. Marmeladov recognized her. "A priest," he articulated huskily. Katerina Ivanovna walked to the window, laid her head against the window frame and exclaimed in despair: "Oh, wretched life!" "A priest," the dying man said again after a moment silence. "They've gone for him," Katerina Ivanovna shouted to him; he obeyed her and fell silent. With sad and timid eyes he looked for her; she returned and stood by his pillow. He seemed a little more eased, but not for long. Soon his eyes rested on little Lida, his favorite, who was shaking in the corner as though she were in a fit and staring at him with her wondering childish eyes. "A-ah," he signed towards her uneasily. He wanted to say something. "What now?" shouted Katerina Ivanovna. "Barefoot, barefoot!" he muttered, indicating with frenzied eyes the child bare feet. "Be quiet," Katerina Ivanovna shouted irritably, "you know why she is barefoot." "Thank God, the doctor," exclaimed Raskolnikov, relieved. The doctor came in, a precise little old man, a German, looking about him mistrustfully; he went up to the sick man, took his pulse, carefully felt his head and with the help of Katerina Ivanovna he unbuttoned the blood-stained shirt, and bared the injured man chest. It was gashed, crushed and fractured, several ribs on the right side were broken. On the left side, just over the heart, was a large, sinister-looking yellowish-black bruise a cruel kick from the horse hoof. The doctor frowned. The policeman told him that he was caught in the wheel and turned round with it for thirty yards on the road. "It wonderful that he has recovered consciousness," the doctor whispered softly to Raskolnikov. "What do you think?" he asked. "He will die immediately." "Is there really no hope?" "Not even the slightest! He is at the last gasp . . . His head is badly injured, too . . . Hm . . . I could bleed him if you like, but . . . it would be useless. He is bound to die within the next five or ten minutes." "Better bleed him then." "If you like . . . But I warn you it will be perfectly useless." At that moment other steps were heard; the crowd in the passage parted, and the priest, a little, gray old man, appeared in the doorway bearing the sacrament. A policeman had gone to look for him at the time of the accident. The doctor changed places with him, exchanging glances with him. Raskolnikov begged the doctor to remain a little while. He shrugged his shoulders and remained. Everyone stepped back. The confession was soon over. The dying man probably understood little; he could only utter indistinct broken sounds. Katerina Ivanovna took little Lida, lifted the boy from the chair, knelt down in the corner by the stove and made the children kneel in front of her. The little girl was still trembling; but the boy, kneeling on his little bare knees, lifted his hand rhythmically, crossing himself with precision and bowed down, touching the floor with his forehead, which seemed to afford him special satisfaction. Katerina Ivanovna bit her lips and held back her tears; she prayed, too, pulling the boy shirt straight now and then, and managed to cover the girl bare shoulders with a kerchief, which she took from the chest without rising from her knees or ceasing to pray. Meanwhile the door from the inner rooms was opened inquisitively again. In the passage the crowd of spectators from all the apartments on the staircase grew denser and denser, but they did not venture beyond the threshold. A single candle-end lit up the scene. At that moment Polenka forced her way through the crowd at the door. She came in panting from running so fast, took off her kerchief, looked for her mother, went up to her and said, "She coming, I met her in the street." Her mother made her kneel beside her. Timidly and noiselessly a young girl made her way through the crowd, and her appearance in that room was strange, in the midst of want, rags, death and despair. She too was in rags, her clothing was all made of the cheapest material, but decked out in gutter finery of a special kind, unmistakably betraying its shameful purpose. Sonia stopped short in the doorway and looked about her bewildered, unconscious of everything. She forgot her fourth-hand, gaudy silk dress, so unseemly here with its ridiculous long train, and her immense crinoline that filled up the whole doorway, and her light-colored shoes, and the parasol she brought with her, though it was no use at night, and the absurd round straw hat with its flaring flame-colored feather. Under this flirtatiously tilted hat was a pale, frightened little face with lips parted and eyes staring in terror. Sonia was a small thin girl of eighteen with fair hair, rather pretty, with wonderful blue eyes. She looked intently at the bed and the priest; she too was out of breath from running. At last whispers, some words in the crowd probably, reached her. She looked down and took a step forward into the room, still keeping close to the door. The service was over. Katerina Ivanovna went up to her husband again. The priest stepped back and turned to say a few words of advice and consolation to Katerina Ivanovna as he was leaving. "What am I to do with these?" she interrupted sharply and irritably, pointing to the little ones. "God is merciful; look for help to the Most High," the priest began. "Ah! He is merciful, but not to us." "That a sin, a sin, madam," observed the priest, shaking his head. "And isn't that a sin?" cried Katerina Ivanovna, pointing to the dying man. "Perhaps those who have involuntarily caused the accident will agree to compensate you, at least for the loss of his earnings." "You don't understand!" cried Katerina Ivanovna angrily waving her hand. "And why should they compensate me? Why, he was drunk and threw himself under the horses! What earnings? He brought us in nothing but misery. He drank everything away, the drunkard! He robbed us to get drink, he wasted their lives and mine for drink! And thank God he dying! One less to keep!" "You must forgive in the hour of death, that a sin, madam, such feelings are a great sin." Katerina Ivanovna was busy with the dying man; she was giving him water, wiping the blood and sweat from his head, setting his pillow straight, and had only turned now and then for a moment to address the priest. Now she flew at him almost in a frenzy. "Ah, Father! That words and only words! Forgive! If he'd not been run over, he'd have come home today drunk and his only shirt dirty and in rags and he'd have fallen asleep like a log, and I would have been drenching and rinsing until dawn, washing his rags and the children and then drying them by the window and as soon as it was daylight I would have been darning them. That how I spend my nights! . . . What the use of talking of forgiveness! I have forgiven enough as it is!" A terrible hollow cough interrupted her words. She put her handkerchief to her lips and showed it to the priest, pressing her other hand to her aching chest. The handkerchief was covered with blood. The priest bowed his head and said nothing. Marmeladov was in the middle of the final agony; he did not take his eyes off the face of Katerina Ivanovna, who was bending over him again. He kept trying to say something to her; he began moving his tongue with difficulty and articulating indistinctly, but Katerina Ivanovna, understanding that he wanted to ask her forgiveness, called peremptorily to him: "Be silent! No need! I know what you want to say!" And the sick man was silent, but at the same instant his wandering eyes strayed to the doorway and he saw Sonia. Until then he had not noticed her: she was standing in the shadow in a corner. "Who that? Who that?" he said suddenly in a thick gasping voice, in agitation, turning his eyes in horror towards the door where his daughter was standing, and trying to sit up. "Lie down! Lie do-own!" cried Katerina Ivanovna. With unnatural strength he had succeeded in propping himself on his elbow. He looked wildly and fixedly for some time on his daughter, as though he did not realize her. He had never seen her dressed like that before. Suddenly he recognized her, crushed and ashamed in her humiliation and gaudy clothes, meekly awaiting her turn to say goodbye to her dying father. His face showed intense suffering. "Sonia! Daughter! Forgive me!" he cried, and he tried to hold out his hand to her, but losing his balance, he fell off the sofa, face downwards on the floor. They rushed to pick him up, they put him on the sofa; but he was dying. Sonia with a faint cry ran up, embraced him and stayed there motionless. He died in her arms. "He got what he wanted," Katerina Ivanovna cried, seeing her husband dead body. "Well, what to be done now? How am I to bury him! What can I give them tomorrow to eat?" Raskolnikov went up to Katerina Ivanovna. "Katerina Ivanovna," he began, "last week your husband told me about his entire life and circumstances . . . Believe me, he spoke about you passionately and with the deepest of respect. From that evening, when I learnt how devoted he was to you all and how he loved and respected you especially, Katerina Ivanovna, in spite of his unfortunate weakness, from that evening we became friends . . . Allow me now . . . to do something . . . to repay my debt to my dead friend. Here are twenty rubles I think and if that can be of any assistance to you, then . . . I . . . in short, I will come again, I will be sure to come again . . . I shall, perhaps, come again tomorrow . . . Goodbye!" And he went quickly out of the room, squeezing his way through the crowd to the stairs. But in the crowd he suddenly jostled against Nikodim Fomich, who had heard of the accident and had come to give instructions in person. They had not met since the scene at the police station, but Nikodim Fomich knew him instantly. "Ah, is that you?" he asked him. "He dead," answered Raskolnikov. "The doctor and the priest have been, all as it should have been. Don't worry the poor lady too much, she is tubercular as it is. Try and cheer her up, if possible . . . you are a kind-hearted man, I know . . . " he added with a smile, looking straight in his face. "But you are spattered with blood," observed Nikodim Fomich, noticing in the lamplight some fresh stains on Raskolnikov waistcoat. "Yes . . . I'm covered with blood," Raskolnikov said with a peculiar air; then he smiled, nodded and went downstairs. He walked down slowly and deliberately, feverish but not conscious of it, entirely absorbed in a new overwhelming sensation of life and strength that surged up suddenly within him. This sensation might be compared to that of a man condemned to death who has suddenly been pardoned. Halfway down the staircase he was overtaken by the priest on his way home; Raskolnikov let him pass, exchanging a silent greeting with him. He was just descending the last steps when he heard rapid footsteps behind him. Someone overtook him; it was Polenka. She was running after him, calling "Wait! Wait!" He turned round. She was at the bottom of the staircase and stopped short a step above him. A dim light came in from the yard. Raskolnikov could distinguish the child thin but pretty little face, looking at him with a bright childish smile. She had run after him with a message which she was evidently glad to give. "Tell me, what is your name? . . . Where do you live?" she said hurriedly in a breathless voice. He laid both hands on her shoulders and looked at her in a sort of ecstasy. It was such a joy to him to look at her, he could not have said why. "Who sent you?" "My sister Sonia sent me," answered the girl, smiling still more brightly. "I knew it was your sister Sonia who sent you." "Mother sent me, too . . . when Sonia was sending me, Mother came up, too, and said ?ÄòRun fast, Polenka.' " "Do you love Sonia?" "I love her more than anyone," Polenka answered with a peculiar earnestness, and her smile became graver. "And will you love me?" By way of answer he saw the little girl face approaching him, her full lips naively held out to kiss him. Suddenly her arms as thin as sticks held him tightly, her head rested on his shoulder and the little girl wept softly, pressing her face against him. "I am sorry for Father," she said a moment later, raising her tear-stained face and brushing away the tears with her hands. "It nothing but unhappiness now," she added suddenly with that peculiarly sedate air which children try hard to assume when they want to speak like adults. "Did your father love you?" "He loved Lida the most," she went on very seriously without a smile, exactly like an adult, "he loved her because she is little and because she is sick, too. And he always used to bring her presents. But he taught us to read and me grammar and scripture, too," she added with dignity. "And Mother never used to say anything, but we knew that she liked it and father knew it, too. And Mother wants to teach me French, because it time I started on my education." "And do you know your prayers?" "Of course we do! We knew them long ago. I say my prayers to myself because I am a big girl now, but Kolia and Lida say them aloud with Mother. First they repeat the ?ÄòAve Maria' and then another prayer: ?ÄòLord, forgive and bless our sister Sonia,' and then another, ?ÄòLord, forgive and bless our second father.' Our elder father is dead and this is another one, but we do pray for the other as well." "Polenka, my name is Rodion. Pray for me sometimes, too. ?ÄòAnd Thy servant Rodion,' nothing more." "I'll pray for you all the rest of my life," the little girl declared hotly, and suddenly smiling again she rushed at him and hugged him warmly once more. Raskolnikov told her his name and address and promised to be sure to come next day. The child went away quite enchanted with him. It was past ten when he came out into the street. In five minutes he was standing on the bridge at the spot where the woman had jumped in. "Enough," he pronounced resolutely and triumphantly. "I've done with imaginary terrors and phantoms! Life is real! Haven't I lived just now? My life has not yet died with that old woman! The Kingdom of Heaven to her and now leave me in peace! Now for the reign of reason and light . . . and of will, and of strength . . . and now we will see! We will try our strength!" he added defiantly, as though challenging some power of darkness. "And I was ready to consent to live in a square of space! "I am very weak at this moment, but . . . I believe my illness is all over. I knew it would be over when I went out. By the way, Potchinkov house is only a few steps away. I certainly must go to Razumikhin even if it were not close by . . . let him win his bet! Let us give him some satisfaction, too no matter! Strength, strength is what you need, you can get nothing without it, and strength must be won by strength: that what they don't know," he added proudly and self-confidently as he walked with flagging footsteps from the bridge. Pride and self-confidence grew continually stronger in him; he was becoming a different man every minute. What had worked this revolution inside him? He did not know himself; like a man clutching at straws, he suddenly felt that he, too, "could live, that there was still life for him, that his life had not died with the old woman." Perhaps he hurried his conclusion too much, but he did not think of that. "But I did ask her to remember ?ÄòThy servant Rodion' in her prayers," the idea struck him. "Well, that was . . . in case of emergency," he added and laughed himself at his boyish sally. He was in the best of spirits. He easily found Razumikhin; the new lodger was already known at Potchinkov and the porter at once showed him the way. Halfway upstairs he could hear the noise and animated conversation of a big gathering of people. The door was wide open on the stairs; he could hear exclamations and discussion. Razumikhin room was fairly large; the company consisted of fifteen people. Raskolnikov stopped in the entry, where two of the landlady servants were busy behind a screen with two samovars, bottles, plates and dishes of pie and savories brought up from the landlady kitchen. Raskolnikov sent in for Razumikhin. He ran out delighted. At first glance it was apparent that he had had a great deal to drink and, though no amount of liquor could make Razumikhin drunk, this time he was noticeably affected by it. "Listen," Raskolnikov said quickly, "I've only just come to tell you you've won your bet and that no-one really knows what may happen to him. I can't come in; I am so weak that I shall fall down immediately. And so good evening and goodbye! Come and see me tomorrow." "Do you know what? I'll see you home. If you say you're weak yourself, you must . . . " "And your visitors? Who is the curly-headed one who has just peeped out?" "Him? Goodness only knows! Some friend of my uncle , I expect, or perhaps he has come without being invited . . . I'll leave uncle with them, he is an invaluable person, pity I can't introduce you to him now. But confound them all now! They won't notice me, and I need a little fresh air, because you've come just in the nick of time another two minutes and I would have come to blows! They are talking such a lot of wild stuff . . . you simply can't imagine what people will say! Though why shouldn't you imagine? Don't we talk nonsense ourselves? And let them . . . that the way to learn not to! . . . Wait a minute, I'll fetch Zossimov." Zossimov pounced upon Raskolnikov almost greedily; he showed a special interest in him. Soon his face brightened. "You must go to bed at once," he pronounced, examining the patient as far as he could, "and take something for the night. Will you take it? I got it ready some time ago . . . a powder." "Two, if you like," answered Raskolnikov. The powder was taken at once. "It a good thing you are taking him home," observed Zossimov to Razumikhin. "We shall see how he is tomorrow, today he not at all bad a considerable change since the afternoon. Live and learn . . . " "Do you know what Zossimov whispered to me when we were coming out?" Razumikhin blurted out, as soon as they were in the street. "I won't tell you everything, my friend, because they are such idiots. Zossimov told me to talk freely to you on the way and get you to talk freely to me, and afterwards I am to tell him about it, for he got a notion in his head that you are . . . mad or close to it. Just imagine! Firstly, you've three times the brains he has; secondly, if you aren't mad, you needn't care that he got such a wild idea; and, thirdly, that piece of beef whose specialty is surgery has gone mad on mental diseases, and what brought him to this conclusion about you was your conversation today with Zametov." "Zametov told you all about it?" "Yes, and he did well. Now I understand what it all means and so does Zametov . . . Well, the fact is, Rodia . . . the point is . . . I am a little drunk now . . . But that . . . no matter . . . the point is that this idea . . . you understand? was just being hatched in their brains . . . you understand? That is, no-one dared say it aloud, because the idea is too absurd and especially since the arrest of that painter, that bubble burst and gone for ever. But why are they such fools? I gave Zametov a bit of a thrashing at the time that between ourselves, brother; please don't tell anyone you know about it; I've noticed he is a ticklish subject; it was at Luise Ivanovna . But today, today it all cleared up. That Ilia Petrovich is at the bottom of it! He took advantage of the fact that you fainted at the police station, but he is ashamed of it himself now; I know that . . . " Raskolnikov listened greedily. Razumikhin was drunk enough to talk too freely. "I fainted then because it was so close and because of the smell of paint," said Raskolnikov. "No need to explain that! And it wasn't just the paint: the fever had been coming on for a month; Zossimov testifies to that! But how crushed that boy is now, you wouldn't believe! ?ÄòI am not worth his little finger,' he says. Yours, he means. He has good feelings at times, brother. But the lesson, the lesson you gave him today in the Crystal Palace, that was too good for anything! You frightened him at first, you know, he nearly went into convulsions! You almost convinced him again of the truth of all that disgusting nonsense, and then you suddenly put out your tongue at him: ?ÄòThere now, what do you make of it?' It was perfect! He is crushed, annihilated now! It was masterly, my God, it what they deserve! Ah, that I wasn't there! He was really hoping to see you. Porfiry wants to meet you as well . . . " "Ah! . . . he too . . . but why did they put me down as mad?" "Oh, not mad. I must have said too much, my friend . . . What struck him, you see, was that that was the only subject that seemed to interest you; now it clear why it did interest you; knowing all the circumstances . . . and how it irritated you and worked in with your illness . . . I am a little drunk, brother, only, damn him, he has some idea of his own . . . I tell you, he mad on mental diseases. But don't pay any attention to him . . . " For half a minute both were silent. "Listen, Razumikhin," began Raskolnikov, "I wanted to tell you: I've just been at a death-bed, a clerk who died . . . I gave them all my money . . . and besides I've just been kissed by someone who, if I had killed anyone, would just the same . . . in fact I saw someone else there . . . with a flame-colored feather . . . but I am talking nonsense; I am very weak, support me . . . we shall be at the stairs soon . . . " "What the matter? What the matter with you?" Razumikhin asked anxiously. "I am a little giddy, but that not the point, I am so sad, so sad . . . like a woman. Look, what that? Look, look!" "What is it?" "Don't you see? A light in my room, you see? Through the crack . . . " They were already at the foot of the last flight of stairs, at the level of the landlady door, and they could, as a fact, see from below that there was a light in Raskolnikov room. "That strange! Maybe it Nastasia," observed Razumikhin. "She never in my room at this time and she must have been in bed long ago, but . . . I don't care! Goodbye!" "What do you mean? I'm coming with you, we'll come in together!" "I know we are going in together, but I want to shake hands here and say goodbye to you here. So give me your hand, goodbye!" "What the matter with you, Rodia?" "Nothing . . . come along . . . you shall be my witness." They began mounting the stairs, and the idea struck Razumikhin that perhaps Zossimov might be right after all. "Ah, I've upset him with my chatter!" he muttered to himself. When they reached the door they heard voices in the room. "What is it?" cried Razumikhin. Raskolnikov was the first to open the door; he flung it wide and stood still in the doorway, dumbfounded. His mother and sister were sitting on his sofa and had been waiting an hour and a half for him. Why had he never expected them, never even thought of them, though it had been repeated to him that they had started, were on their way and would arrive immediately? They had spent that hour and a half plying Nastasia with questions. She was standing in front of them and had told them everything by now. They were beside themselves with alarm when they heard how he "ran away" today when he was ill and, as they understood from her story, delirious! "Lord Almighty, what happened to him?" For that hour and a half both of them had been weeping with anguish. A cry of joy, of ecstasy, greeted Raskolnikov when he came in. Both rushed to him. But he stood there like a dead man; a sudden intolerable sensation struck him like a thunderbolt. He did not lift his arms to embrace them, he could not. His mother and sister clasped him in their arms, kissed him, laughed and cried. He took a step, tottered and fell to the ground, fainting. Anxiety, cries of horror, moans . . . Razumikhin who was standing in the doorway flew into the room, seized the sick man in his strong arms and in a moment had him on the sofa. "It nothing, nothing!" he cried to the mother and sister "he just fainting, it all right! Only just now the doctor said he was much better, said he was perfectly fine! Water! Look, he is coming to, he is all right again!" And seizing Dunia by the arm and almost dislocating it, he made her bend down to see that "he is all right again." The mother and sister gazed at him with emotion and gratitude, as if he were their Providence. They had already heard from Nastasia about everything that had been done for their Rodia during his illness, by this "very competent young man," as Pulcheria Alexandrovna Raskolnikov called him that evening in conversation with Dunia. PART THREE CHAPTER ONE RASKOLNIKOV GOT UP AND sat down on the sofa. He waved his hand weakly at Razumikhin to cut short the flow of warm and incoherent consolations he was addressing to his mother and sister, took them both by the hand and for a minute or two gazed from one to the other without speaking. His mother was alarmed by his expression. It revealed an agonizingly poignant emotion, and at the same time something immobile, almost insane. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry. Avdotia Romanovna was pale; her hand trembled in her brother . "Go home . . . with him," he said in a broken voice, pointing to Razumikhin, "goodbye until tomorrow; tomorrow everything . . . Is it long since you arrived?" "This evening, Rodia," answered Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "the train was awfully late. But, Rodia, nothing would induce me to leave you now! I will spend the night here, near you . . . " "Don't torture me!" he said with a gesture of irritation. "I will stay with him," cried Razumikhin, "I won't leave him for a moment. Damn all my visitors! Let them rage to their hearts' content! My uncle can keep an eye on them." "How, how can I thank you!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning, once more pressing Razumikhin hands, but Raskolnikov interrupted her again. "I can't have it! I can't have it!" he repeated irritably, "don't worry me! Enough, go away . . . I can't stand it!" "Come, mamma, come out of the room at least for a minute," Dunia whispered in dismay; "we are distressing him, that obvious." "Can't I look at him after three years?" wept Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "Hold on," he stopped them again, "you keep interrupting me, and my ideas get muddled . . . Have you seen Luzhin?" "No, Rodia, but he already knows about our arrival. We have heard, Rodia, that Peter Petrovich was kind enough to visit you today," Pulcheria Alexandrovna added somewhat timidly. "Yes . . . he was so kind . . . Dunia, I promised Luzhin I'd throw him downstairs and told him to go to hell . . . " "Rodia, what are you saying! Surely, you don't mean to tell us . . . " Pulcheria Alexandrovna began in alarm, but she stopped, looking at Dunia. Avdotia Romanovna was looking attentively at her brother, waiting for what would come next. Both of them had heard of the quarrel from Nastasia, so far as she had succeeded in understanding and reporting it, and were in painful perplexity and suspense. "Dunia," Raskolnikov continued with an effort, "I don't want that marriage, so at the first opportunity tomorrow you must refuse Luzhin, so we will never hear his name again." "Good Heavens!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "Brother, think what you are saying!" Avdotia Romanovna began impetuously, but immediately checked herself. "You are not fit to talk now, perhaps; you are tired," she added gently. "You think I am delirious? No . . . You are marrying Luzhin for my sake. But I won't accept the sacrifice. And so write a letter before tomorrow, to refuse him . . . Let me read it in the morning and that will be the end of it!" "I can't do that!" the girl cried, offended, "what right do you have . . . " "Dunia, you're rushing things, be quiet, tomorrow . . . Don't you see . . . " the mother interposed in dismay. "We'd better go!" "He is raving," Razumikhin cried drunkenly, "or how would he dare! Tomorrow all this nonsense will be over . . . today he certainly did drive him away. That true. And Luzhin got angry, too . . . He made speeches here, wanted to show off his learning and he went out crest-fallen . . . " "Then it true?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "Goodbye until tomorrow, brother," said Dunia compassionately. "Let us go, Mother . . . goodbye, Rodia." "Do you hear, sister," he repeated after them, making a last effort, "I am not delirious; this marriage is scandalous. Let me be mean, but you mustn't . . . one is enough . . . and though I am mean, I wouldn't own such a sister. It me or Luzhin! Go now . . . " "But you're out of your mind! Despot!" roared Razumikhin; but Raskolnikov did not and perhaps could not answer. He lay down on the sofa, and turned to the wall, utterly exhausted. Avdotia Romanovna looked with interest at Razumikhin; her black eyes flashed. Razumikhin started at her glance. Pulcheria Alexandrovna stood overwhelmed. "Nothing would induce me to go," she whispered in despair to Razumikhin. "I will stay somewhere here . . . escort Dunia home." "You'll spoil everything," Razumikhin answered in the same whisper, losing patience "come out onto the stairs, anyway. Nastasia, get us a light! I'm telling you," he went on in a half whisper on the stairs "that he was almost beating the doctor and me this afternoon! Do you understand? Even the doctor! Even he gave way and left him, so as not to irritate him. I remained downstairs on guard, but he dressed at once and slipped off. And he will slip off again if you irritate him, at this time of night, and will do himself harm . . . " "What are you saying?" "And Avdotia Romanovna can't possibly be left in those lodgings without you. Just think where you are staying! That blackguard Peter Petrovich couldn't find you better lodgings . . . But you know I've had a little to drink, and that what makes me . . . swear; don't pay any attention . . . " "But I'll go to the landlady here," Pulcheria Alexandrovna insisted, "I'll ask her to find some corner for Dunia and me for the night. I can't leave him like that, I can't!" This conversation took place on the landing right in front of the landlady door. Nastasia lighted them from a step below. Razumikhin was extraordinarily excited. Half an hour earlier, while he was bringing Raskolnikov home, he had indeed talked too freely, but he was aware of it himself, and his head was clear in spite of the vast quantities of drink which he had consumed. Now he was in a state bordering on ecstasy, and all that he had drunk seemed to fly to his head with redoubled effect. He stood with the two ladies, seizing both by their hands, persuading them, and reasoning through his plans with astonishing clarity, and at almost every word he uttered, probably to emphasize his arguments, he squeezed their hands painfully, as if in a vise. He stared at Avdotia Romanovna without the least regard for good manners. They sometimes pulled their hands out of his huge bony paws, but far from noticing what was the matter, he drew them closer towards him. If they'd told him to jump head foremost from the staircase, he would have done it without thought or hesitation in their service. Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna felt that the young man was really too eccentric and pinched her hand too much, in her anxiety over her Rodia she looked on his presence as providential and was unwilling to notice all his peculiarities. But though Avdotia Romanovna shared her anxiety, and was not of timorous disposition, she could not see the glowing light in his eyes without wonder and almost alarm. It was only the unbounded confidence inspired by Nastasia account of her brother strange friend which prevented her from trying to run away from him and persuading her mother to do the same. She realized, too, that even running away was perhaps impossible now. Ten minutes later, however, she was considerably reassured; it was characteristic of Razumikhin that he showed his true nature at once, whatever mood he might be in, so that people quickly saw the sort of man they had to deal with. "You can't go to the landlady, that perfect nonsense!" he cried. "If you stay, though you are his mother, you'll drive him into a frenzy, and then God knows what will happen! Listen, I'll tell you what I'll do: Nastasia will stay with him now, and I'll walk you both home, you can't be in the streets alone; Petersburg is an awful place in that respect . . . But no matter! Then I'll run straight back here and a quarter of an hour later, on my word of honor, I'll bring you news of how he is, whether he is asleep, and all that. Then, listen! Then I'll run home in an instant I've got a lot of friends there, all drunk I'll fetch Zossimov that the doctor who is looking after him, he there, too, but he not drunk he not drunk, he never drunk! I'll drag him to Rodia, and then to you, so you'll get two reports within the hour from the doctor, you understand, from the doctor himself, that a very different thing from my account of him! If there anything wrong, I swear I'll bring you here myself, but, if it all right, you go to bed. And I'll spend the night here, in the passage, he won't hear me, and I'll tell Zossimov to sleep at the landlady , to be at hand. Which is better for him: you or the doctor? So come home then! But the landlady is out of the question; it all right for me, but it out of the question for you: she wouldn't take you, because she . . . because she a fool . . . She'd be jealous on my account of Avdotia Romanovna, and of you too if you want to know . . . of Avdotia Romanovna certainly. She is an absolutely, absolutely inexplicable character! But I am a fool, too! . . . No matter! Come along! Do you trust me? Come on, do you trust me or not?" "Let go, Mother," said Avdotia Romanovna, "he will certainly do what he has promised. He has saved Rodia already, and if the doctor really will agree to spend the night here, what could be better?" "You see, you . . . you . . . understand me, because you are an angel!" Razumikhin cried in ecstasy, "let us go! Nastasia! Fly upstairs and sit with him with a light; I'll come in a quarter of an hour." Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna was not entirely convinced, she made no further resistance. Razumikhin gave an arm to each of them and took them down the stairs. He still made her uneasy: although he was competent and good-natured, was he capable of carrying out his promise? He seemed to be in such a state . . . "Ah, so you think I'm in such a state!" Razumikhin broke in upon her thoughts, guessing them, as he strolled along the pavement with huge steps, such that the two ladies could hardly keep up with him, a fact he did not observe, however. "Nonsense! That is . . . I am drunk like a fool, but that not it; I am not drunk from wine. It seeing you that has turned my head . . . But don't mind me! Don't take any notice: I'm talking nonsense, I'm not worthy of you . . . I am utterly unworthy of you! The minute I've taken you home, I'll pour a couple of bucketfuls of water over my head in the gutter here, and then I shall be all right . . . If only you knew how I love you both! Don't laugh, and don't be angry! You can be angry with anyone, but not with me! I am his friend, and therefore I am your friend, too, I want to be . . . I had a presentiment . . . Last year there was a moment . . . though it wasn't a presentiment really, for you seem to have fallen from heaven. And I expect I shan't sleep all night . . . Zossimov was afraid a little time ago that he would go mad . . . that why he mustn't be irritated." "What do you say?" cried the mother. "Did the doctor really say that?" asked Avdotia Romanovna, alarmed. "Yes, but it not so, not a bit of it. He gave him some medicine, a powder, I saw it, and then your coming here . . . Ah! It would have been better if you had come tomorrow. It a good thing we went away. And in an hour Zossimov himself will tell you about everything. He isn't drunk! And I shan't be drunk . . . And what made me get so tight? Because they got me into an argument, damn them! I've sworn never to argue! They talk such trash! I almost started a fight! I've left my uncle to keep an eye over them. Would you believe, they insist on complete absence of individualism and that just what they relish! Not to be themselves, to be as unlike themselves as they can. That what they regard as the highest point of progress. If only their nonsense were their own, but as it is . . . " "Listen!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted timidly, but it only added fuel to the flames. "What do you think?" shouted Razumikhin, louder than ever, "you think I am attacking them for talking nonsense? Not a bit! I like them to talk nonsense. That man one privilege over all creation. Through error you come to the truth! I am a man because I err! You never reach any truth without making fourteen mistakes and very likely a hundred and fourteen. And a fine thing, too, in its way; but we can't even make mistakes on our own account! Talk nonsense, but talk your own nonsense, and I'll kiss you for it. To go wrong in your own way is better than to go right in someone else . In the first case you're a human being, in the second you're no better than a bird. Truth won't escape you, but life can be cramped. There have been examples. And what are we doing now? In science, development, thought, invention, ideals, aims, liberalism, judgment, experience and everything, everything, everything, we are still in the preparatory class at school. We prefer to live on other people ideas, it what we are used to! Am I right, am I right?" cried Razumikhin, pressing and shaking the two ladies' hands. "Oh, mercy, I do not know," cried poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "Yes, yes . . . though I don't agree with you about everything," added Avdotia Romanovna earnestly and at once cried out because he squeezed her hand so painfully. "Yes, you say yes . . . well after that you . . . you . . . " he cried in a transport, "you are a fount of goodness, purity, sense . . . and perfection. Give me your hand . . . you give me yours, too! I want to kiss your hands here at once, on my knees . . . " and he fell on his knees on the pavement, fortunately at that time deserted. "Leave off, I beg you, what are you doing?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried, greatly distressed. "Get up, get up!" said Dunia laughing, though she, too, was upset. "Not for anything until you let me kiss your hands! That it! Enough! I get up and we'll go on! I am a luckless fool, I am unworthy of you and I'm drunk . . . and I am ashamed . . . I am not worthy to love you, but to pay homage to you is the duty of every man who is not a perfect beast! And I've paid homage . . . Here are your lodgings, and for that alone Rodia was right in driving your Peter Petrovich away . . . How dare he! how dare he put you in such lodgings! It a scandal! Do you know the sort of people they take in here? And you his betrothed! You are his betrothed? Yes, well, then, I'll tell you, your fianc?(c) is a scoundrel." "Excuse me, Mr. Razumikhin, you are forgetting . . . " Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning. "Yes, yes, you are right, I did forget myself, I am ashamed of it," Razumikhin made haste to apologize. "But . . . but you can't be angry with me for speaking like that! I'm speaking sincerely and not because . . . hm, hm! That would be disgraceful; in fact not because I'm in . . . hm! Well, anyway I won't say why, I daren't . . . But we all saw today when he came in that that man is not of our sort. Not because he had his hair curled at the barber , not because he was in such a hurry to show off his intelligence, but because he is a spy, a speculator, because he is a cheapskate and a moron. That obvious. Do you think he clever? No, he is a fool, a fool. And is he a match for you? Good heavens! Do you see, ladies?" he stopped suddenly on the way upstairs to their rooms, "though all my friends there are drunk, yet they are all honest, and though we do talk a lot of trash, and I do too, yet we shall talk our way to the truth at last, for we are on the right path, while Peter Petrovich . . . is not on the right path. Though I've been calling them all sorts of names just now, I do respect them all . . . though I don't respect Zametov, I like him, because he is a puppy, and that ox Zossimov, because he is an honest man and knows his work. But enough, it all said and forgiven. Is it forgiven? Well, then, let go on. I know this corridor, I've been here, there was a scandal here at Number 3 . . . Where are you here? Which number? Eight? Well, lock yourselves in for the night, then. Don't let anybody in. In a quarter of an hour I'll come back with news, and half an hour later I'll bring Zossimov, you'll see! Goodbye, I'll run." "Good heavens, Dunia, what is going to happen?" said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, addressing her daughter with anxiety and dismay. "Don't worry yourself, Mother," said Dunia, taking off her hat and cape. "God has sent this man to help us, even though he has come from a drinking party. I'm sure we can depend on him. And everything he done for Rodia . . . " "Ah, Dunia, goodness knows whether he will come! How could I bring myself to leave Rodia? . . . And how different, how different I had thought our meeting would be! How sullen he was, it was as if he wasn't pleased to see us . . . " Tears came into her eyes. "No, it not that, Mother. You didn't see, you were crying all the time. He is suffering from a serious illness that the reason." "Ah, that illness! What will happen, what will happen? And the way he talked to you, Dunia!" said the mother, looking timidly at her daughter, trying to read her thoughts and already half consoled by the fact that Dunia was standing up for her brother, which meant that she had already forgiven him. "I am sure he will have a different opinion about the whole thing tomorrow," she added, probing her further. "And I am sure that he will say the same tomorrow . . . about that," Avdotia Romanovna said finally. And, of course, there was no going beyond that, for this was a point which Pulcheria Alexandrovna was afraid to discuss. Dunia went up and kissed her mother. The latter warmly embraced her without speaking. Then she sat down to wait anxiously for Razumikhin return, timidly watching her daughter who walked up and down the room with her arms folded, lost in thought. This walking up and down when she was thinking was a habit of Avdotia Romanovna and the mother was always afraid to break in on her daughter mood at such moments. Razumikhin, of course, was ridiculous in his sudden drunken infatuation for Avdotia Romanovna. Yet apart from his eccentric condition, many people would have thought it justified if they had seen Avdotia Romanovna, especially at that moment when she was walking to and fro with her arms folded, pensive and melancholy. Avdotia Romanovna was remarkably good looking; she was tall, strikingly well-proportioned, strong and self-reliant the latter quality was apparent in every gesture, though it did not in the least detract from the grace and softness of her movements. In her face she resembled her brother, but she might be described as really beautiful. Her hair was dark brown, a little lighter than her brother ; there was a proud light in her almost black eyes and yet at times a look of extraordinary kindness. She was pale, but it was a healthy pallor; her face was radiant with freshness and vigor. Her mouth was rather small; the full red lower lip projected a little as did her chin; it was the only irregularity in her beautiful face, but it gave it a peculiarly individual and almost haughty expression. Her face was always more serious and thoughtful than gay; but how well smiles, how well youthful, light-hearted, irresponsible laughter suited her face! It was natural enough that a warm, open, simple-hearted, honest giant like Razumikhin, who had never seen anyone like her and was not quite sober at the time, should lose his head immediately. Besides, as chance would have it, he saw Dunia for the first time transfigured by her love for her brother and her joy at meeting him. Afterwards he saw her lower lip quiver with indignation at her brother insolent, cruel and ungrateful words and his fate was sealed. He had spoken the truth, moreover, when he blurted out in his drunken talk on the stairs that Praskovia Pavlovna, Raskolnikov eccentric landlady, would be jealous of Pulcheria Alexandrovna as well as of Avdotia Romanovna on his account. Although Pulcheria Alexandrovna was forty-three, her face still retained traces of her former beauty; she looked much younger than her age, in fact, which is almost always the case with women who retain serenity of spirit, sensitiveness and pure sincere warmth of heart into old age. We may add in parenthesis that to preserve all this is the only means of retaining beauty into old age. Her hair had begun to grow gray and thin, there had long been little crow foot wrinkles round her eyes, her cheeks were hollow and sunken from anxiety and grief, and yet it was a handsome face. She was Dunia over again, twenty years older, but without the projecting underlip. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was emotional, but not sentimental, timid and yielding, but only to a certain point. She could give way and accept a great deal even of what was contrary to her convictions, but there was a certain barrier fixed by honesty, principle and the deepest convictions which nothing would induce her to cross. Exactly twenty minutes after Razumikhin departure, there came two subdued but hurried knocks at the door: he had come back. "I won't come in, I haven't got time," he said right after he opened the door. "He sleeping like a baby, soundly, quietly, and God grant he may sleep ten hours. Nastasia with him; I told her not to leave until I came. Now I am fetching Zossimov, he will tell you what going on and then you'd better get some rest; I can see you're too tired to do anything . . . " And he ran off down the corridor. "What a competent and . . . devoted young man!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, overjoyed. "He seems wonderful!" Avdotia Romanovna replied with some warmth, resuming her walk up and down the room. It was nearly an hour later when they heard footsteps in the corridor and another knock at the door. Both women waited this time completely relying on Razumikhin promise; he actually had succeeded in bringing Zossimov. Zossimov had agreed at once to desert the drinking party to go to Raskolnikov , but he came reluctantly and with the greatest suspicion to see the ladies, mistrusting Razumikhin in his exhilarated condition. But his vanity was at once reassured and flattered; he saw that they were really depending on his expert opinion. He stayed just ten minutes and succeeded in completely convincing and comforting Pulcheria Alexandrovna. He spoke with real sympathy, but with the reserve and extreme seriousness of a young doctor at an important consultation. He did not utter a word on any other subject and did not display the slightest desire to enter into more personal relations with the two ladies. Taking note of Avdotia Romanovna dazzling beauty, he endeavored not to notice her at all during his visit and addressed himself solely to Pulcheria Alexandrovna. All this gave him extraordinary inward satisfaction. He said he thought that the invalid condition was currently satisfactory. According to his observations the patient illness was due partly to his unfortunate material circumstances during the last few months, but it had also a moral origin, "was so to speak the product of several material and moral influences, anxieties, apprehensions, troubles, certain ideas . . . and so on." Noticing stealthily that Avdotia Romanovna was following his words with close attention, Zossimov allowed himself to enlarge on this theme. When Pulcheria Alexandrovna anxiously and timidly inquired about "some suspicion of insanity," he replied with a composed and candid smile that his words had been exaggerated; that certainly the patient had some fixed idea, something approaching a monomania he, Zossimov, was now studying this interesting branch of medicine but that it must be recalled that until today the patient had been in delirium and . . . and that no doubt the presence of his family would have a favorable effect on his recovery and distract his mind, "if only all fresh shocks can be avoided," he added significantly. Then he got up, took leave with an impressive and friendly bow, while blessings, warm gratitude, and requests were showered upon him, and Avdotia Romanovna spontaneously offered her hand to him. He went out exceedingly pleased with his visit and still more so with himself. "We'll talk tomorrow; go to bed at once!" Razumikhin said in conclusion, following Zossimov out. "I'll be with you tomorrow morning as early as possible with my report." "That a fetching little girl, Avdotia Romanovna," remarked Zossimov, almost licking his lips as they both came out into the street. "Fetching? You said fetching?" roared Razumikhin and he flew at Zossimov and seized him by the throat. "If you dare . . . Do you understand? Do you understand?" he shouted, shaking him by the collar and squeezing him against the wall. "Do you hear?" "Let me go, you drunken devil," said Zossimov, struggling, and when he had let him go, he stared at him and went off into a sudden fit of laughter. Razumikhin stood facing him in gloomy and earnest reflection. "Of course, I am an idiot," he observed, somber as a storm cloud, "but still . . . you are another." "No, my friend, not ?Äòanother' at all. I'm not dreaming of any such stupidity." They walked along in silence and only when they were close to Raskolnikov lodgings, Razumikhin broke the silence in considerable anxiety. "Listen," he said, "you're a wonderful person, but among your other failings, you play loose, and dirty too. You're a feeble, nervous wretch, a mass of caprice, you're getting fat and lazy and can't deny yourself anything which is dirty because it leads on straight into dirt. You've let yourself get so slack that I don't know how you manage to be a good, even a devoted doctor. You a doctor sleep on a feather bed and get up at night for your patients! In another three or four years you won't even get up for your patients . . . But damn it, that not the point! . . . You are going to spend tonight in the landlady apartment here. (I've had my work cut out persuading her!) And I'll be in the kitchen. So here a chance for you to get to know her better . . . It not what you think! There not a trace of anything like that, my friend . . . !" "But I don't think!" "Here you have modesty, brother, silence, bashfulness, a savage virtue . . . and yet she sighing and melting like wax, simply melting! Save me from her, by all that unholy! She so overwhelming . . . I'll repay you, I'll do anything . . . " Zossimov laughed more violently than ever. "Well, you are smitten! But what am I to do with her?" "It won't be much trouble, I assure you. Talk any rot you like to her, as long as you sit by her and talk. You're a doctor, too; try curing her of something. I swear you won't regret it. She has a piano, and you know, I strum a little. I have a song there, a genuine Russian one: ?ÄòI shed hot tears.' She likes the genuine article and well, it all began with that song; now you're a regular performer, a master, a Rubinstein 27 . . . I assure you, you won't regret it!" "But have you made her some promise? Something signed? A promise of marriage, perhaps?" "Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing of the kind! Besides, she is not like that at all . . . Chebarov tried that . . . " "Well, then, drop her!" "But I can't drop her like that!" "Why can't you?" "Well, I can't, that all about it! There an element of attraction here, brother." "Then why have you fascinated her?" "I haven't fascinated her; perhaps, I was fascinated myself in my idiocy. But she won't care whether it you or I, so long as somebody sits beside her, sighing . . . I can't explain it, my friend . . . look here, you are good at mathematics, and working at it now . . . start teaching her integral calculus; I swear, I'm not joking, I'm serious, it'll be all the same to her. She will gaze at you and sigh all year long. I talked to her once for two days straight about the Prussian House of Lords (you've got to talk about something) she just sighed and sweated! And you can't talk about love she gets shy around hysterics but just let her see you can't tear yourself away that enough. It really quite comfortable; you feel at home pretty quickly, you can read, sit, lie about, write. You can even try a kiss, if you're careful." "But what do I want with her?" "Don't you understand? You're made for each other! I have often been reminded of you! . . . You'll come to it in the end! So does it matter whether it sooner or later? There the featherbed element here, brother, ah! and not only that! There an attraction here here you have the end of the world, an anchorage, a quiet haven, the navel of the earth, the three fishes that are the foundation of the world, the essence of pancakes, of fish-pies, of the evening samovar, of soft sighs and warm shawls, and hot stoves to sleep on as snug as though you were dead, and yet you're alive the advantages of both at once! Well, damn it, brother, what nonsense I'm talking, it bedtime! Listen. I sometimes wake up at night; so I'll go in and look at him. But there no need, it all right. Don't worry; if you like, you might just look in once. But if you notice anything, delirium or fever wake me. But there can't be . . . " CHAPTER TWO RAZUMIKHIN WOKE UP NEXT morning at eight o'clock, troubled and serious. He found himself confronted with many new and unforeseen difficulties. He had never expected that he would ever wake up feeling like that. He remembered every detail of the previous day and he knew that a perfectly novel experience had happened to him, that he had received an impression unlike anything he had known before. At the same time he recognized clearly that the dream which had fired his imagination was hopelessly unattainable so unattainable that he felt ashamed of it, and he moved on quickly to the other more practical cares and difficulties bequeathed him by that "thrice accursed yesterday." The most awful memory of the previous day was the way he had shown how "base and mean" he was, not only because he had been drunk, but because he had taken advantage of the young girl position to abuse her fianc?(c) in his stupid jealousy, knowing nothing of their mutual relations and obligations and next to nothing of the man himself. And what right did he have to criticize him in that hasty and unguarded way? Who had asked for his opinion! Was it thinkable that a girl like Avdotia Romanovna would be marrying an unworthy man for money? So there must be something else to him. The lodgings? But after all how could he know anything about the character of the lodgings? He was furnishing an apartment . . . Pah, how despicable it all was! And what justification was it that he was drunk? A stupid excuse like that was even more degrading! In wine is truth, and the truth had all come out, "that is, all the uncleanness of his coarse and envious heart!" And would such a dream ever be permissible to him, Razumikhin? What was he compared to a girl like that he, the drunken noisy braggart of last night? "Was it possible to imagine such an absurd and cynical juxtaposition?" Razumikhin blushed desperately at the very idea and suddenly the recollection forced itself vividly upon him of how he had said last night on the stairs that the landlady would be jealous of Avdotia Romanovna . . . that was simply intolerable. He brought his fist down heavily on the kitchen stove, hurt his hand and sent one of the bricks flying. "Of course," he muttered to himself a minute later with a feeling of self-abasement, "of course, all these bad deeds can never be wiped out or smoothed over . . . and so it useless even to think of it, and I must go to them in silence and do my duty . . . in silence, too . . . and not ask forgiveness, and say nothing . . . now all is lost!" And yet as he dressed he examined his clothing more carefully than usual. He hadn't got another suit if he had, perhaps he wouldn't have put it on. "I would have made a point of not putting it on." But in any case he could not remain a dirty cynic; he had no right to offend the feelings of others, especially when they needed his help and kept asking him to see them. He brushed his clothes carefully. His dress was always decent; in that respect he was especially clean. He washed carefully that morning he got some soap from Nastasia he washed his hair, his neck, and especially his hands. When it came to the question of whether or not to shave his stubby chin (Praskovia Pavlovna had excellent razors that had been left by her late husband), the question was angrily answered in the negative. "Let it stay as it is! What if they think that I shaved on purpose to . . . ? They would definitely think so! Not on any account!" "And . . . the worst of it was he was so coarse, so dirty, his manners came straight from the drinking-house; and . . . and even admitting that he knew he had some of the essentials of a gentleman . . . what was there to be proud of about that? Everyone ought to be a gentleman and more than that . . . and all the same" (he remembered) "he, too, had done little things . . . not exactly dishonest, and yet . . . and what thoughts he sometimes had; hm . . . and to set all that beside Avdotia Romanovna! Damn it! So be it! Well, he'd make a point then of having dirty, greasy, drinking-house manners and he wouldn't care! He'd be worse!" He was engaged in these monologues when Zossimov, who had spent the night in Praskovia Pavlovna parlor, came in. He was going home and was in a hurry to look at the invalid first. Razumikhin informed him that Raskolnikov was sleeping like a dormouse. Zossimov gave orders for them not to wake him and promised to see him again at about eleven. "If he still at home," he added. "Damn it! If you can't control your patients, how can you cure them! Do you know whether he will go to them, or whether they are coming here?" "They're coming, I think," said Razumikhin, understanding the point of the question, "and no doubt they'll discuss their family affairs. I'll be off. You, as the doctor, have more right to be here than I do." "But I am not a father confessor; I shall come and go away; I've plenty to do besides looking after them." "One thing worries me," interposed Razumikhin, frowning. "On the way home I talked a lot of drunken nonsense to him . . . all sorts of things . . . including that you were afraid that he . . . might go mad." "You told the ladies so, too." "I know it was stupid! You can beat me if you like! Did you seriously think so?" "Nonsense, how could I! You described him yourself as a monomaniac when you fetched me to take a look at him . . . and we added fuel to the fire yesterday, you did, that is, with your story about the painter; it was a nice conversation, given that it was a point he might have been particularly crazy about! If only I'd known what happened at the police station and that some wretch . . . had insulted him with his suspiciousness! Hm . . . I would not have allowed that conversation yesterday. These monomaniacs will make a mountain out of a molehill . . . and see their fantasies as solid realities . . . As far as I remember, it was Zametov story that in my opinion cleared up half the mystery. I know one case in which a hypochondriac, a man of forty, cut the throat of a little boy of eight, because he couldn't endure the jokes he made every day at table! And in this case his rags, the insolent police officer, the fever and this suspicion! All that working on a man half frantic with hypochondria, and with his morbidly exceptional vanity! That may well have been the starting-point of illness. Anyway, it can all go to hell! . . . And, by the way, that Zametov is certainly pleasant, but hm . . . he shouldn't have told us that last night. He is a real chatterbox!" "But who did he tell it to? You and me?" "And Porfiry." "What does that matter?" "And, by the way, do you have any influence over them, his mother and sister? Tell them to be more careful with him today . . . " "They'll get on all right!" Razumikhin answered reluctantly. "Why is he so set against this Luzhin? A man with money and she doesn't seem to dislike him . . . and they haven't got a penny, I suppose?" "But what business is it of yours?" Razumikhin cried with annoyance. "How can I tell whether they've got any money? Ask them yourself and perhaps you'll find out . . . " "God, what an idiot you are sometimes! Last night wine hasn't worn off yet . . . Goodbye; thank your Praskovia Pavlovna from me for my night lodging. She locked herself in, made no reply to my greeting through the door; she was up at seven o'clock, the samovar was taken in to her from the kitchen. I was not granted a personal interview . . . " At nine o'clock precisely Razumikhin reached the lodgings at Bakaleyev house. Both ladies were waiting for him with nervous impatience. They had got up at seven o'clock or earlier. He entered looking as black as night, bowed awkwardly and was at once furious with himself for it. He had reckoned without his host: Pulcheria Alexandrovna rushed at him, seized him by both hands and was almost kissing them. He glanced timidly at Avdotia Romanovna, but at that moment her proud face bore an expression of such gratitude and friendliness, such complete and unexpected respect (instead of sneering looks and badly-disguised contempt), that it threw him into greater confusion than if he had been met with abuse. Fortunately there was a subject for conversation, and he was quick to snatch at it. When she heard that everything was going well and that Rodia had not yet woken up, Pulcheria Alexandrovna announced that she was glad, because "there was something which she absolutely had to discuss beforehand." Then followed an inquiry about breakfast and an invitation to have it with them; they had waited for him before they started. Avdotia Romanovna rang the bell: it was answered by a ragged dirty waiter, and they asked him to bring tea which was served at last, but in such a dirty and disorderly way that the ladies were ashamed. Razumikhin vigorously attacked the lodgings, but, remembering Luzhin, stopped in embarrassment and was greatly relieved by Pulcheria Alexandrovna questions, which showered in a continual stream upon him. He talked for three quarters of an hour, being constantly interrupted by their questions, and succeeded in describing to them all the most important facts he knew of the last year of Raskolnikov life, concluding with a circumstantial account of his illness. However, he omitted many things which were better omitted, including the scene at the police station with all its consequences. They listened eagerly to his story; but when he thought he had finished and satisfied his listeners, he realized that they reckoned he had hardly begun. "Tell me, tell me! What do you think . . . ? Excuse me, I still don't know your name!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna put in quickly. "Dmitri Prokofich." "I should like very, very much to know, Dmitri Prokofich . . . how he looks . . . on things in general now, that is, how can I explain, what are his likes and dislikes? Is he always so irritable? Tell me, if you can, what hopes and, so to speak, dreams do you think he has? What influences him now? In other words, I would like . . . " "Mother, how can he answer all that at once?" observed Dunia. "Good heavens, I had not expected to find him in the least like this, Dmitri Prokofich!" "Naturally," answered Razumikhin. "I have no mother, but my uncle comes every year and almost every time he can scarcely recognize me, even in appearance, though he is a clever man; and your three years' separation means a great deal. What can I tell you? I have known Rodion for a year and a half; he is gloomy, proud and disdainful, and recently although perhaps he been like this for a while he has become suspicious and almost absorbed in his fantasies. He has a noble nature and a kind heart. He does not like showing his feelings and would rather do a cruel thing than open his heart freely. Sometimes, though, he is not at all morbid, just cold and in-humanly callous; it as though he were alternating between two characters. Sometimes he is extremely reserved! He says he is so busy that everything gets in his way, and yet he lies in bed doing nothing. He doesn't jeer at things, not because he hasn't got the intelligence, but as though he hasn't got the time to waste on such unimportant issues. He never listens to what people say to him. He is never interested in what interests other people at any given moment. He thinks very highly of himself and perhaps he is right. Well, what more? I think your arrival will have a very beneficial influence on him." "God grant it may," cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, upset by Razumikhin account of her Rodia. And Razumikhin ventured to look more boldly at Avdotia Romanovna at last. He glanced at her often while he was talking, but only for a moment and looked away again at once. Avdotia Romanovna sat at the table, listening attentively, then got up again and began walking to and fro with her arms folded and her lips compressed, occasionally putting in a question, without stopping her walk. She had the same habit of not listening to what was said. She was wearing a dress of thin dark stuff and she had a white transparent scarf round her neck. Razumikhin soon detected signs of extreme poverty in their belongings. Had Avdotia Romanovna been dressed like a queen, he felt that he would not be afraid of her, but perhaps just because she was poorly dressed and that he noticed all the misery of her surroundings, his heart was filled with dread and he began to be afraid of every word he uttered, every gesture he made, which was very trying for a man who already felt diffident. "You've told us many interesting things about my brother character . . . and have told it impartially. I am glad. I thought that you were too uncritically devoted to him," observed Avdotia Romanovna with a smile. "I think you are right that he needs a woman care," she added thoughtfully. "I didn't say so; but I suppose you are probably right, only . . . " "What?" "He loves no-one and perhaps he never will," Razumikhin declared decisively. "You mean he is not capable of love?" "Do you know, Avdotia Romanovna, you are awfully like your brother, in every way, in fact!" he blurted out suddenly to his own surprise, but remembering at once what he had just said about her brother, he turned as red as a crab and was overcome with confusion. Avdotia Romanovna couldn't help laughing when she looked at him. "You may both be mistaken about Rodia," Pulcheria Alexandrovna remarked, slightly offended. "I am not talking about our current difficulties, Dunia. What Peter Petrovich writes in this letter and what you and I have supposed may be mistaken, but you can't imagine, Dmitri Prokofich, how moody and, so to speak, capricious he is. I could never depend on what he would do when he was only fifteen. And I am sure that he might do something now that nobody else would think of doing ... Well, for instance, do you know how a year and a half ago he astounded me and gave me a shock that nearly killed me, when he had the idea of marrying that girl what was her name his landlady daughter?" "Did you hear about that affair?" asked Avdotia Romanovna. "Do you suppose " Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued warmly. "Do you suppose that my tears, my pleas, my illness, my possible death from grief, our poverty would have made him pause? No, he would calmly have disregarded all obstacles. And yet it isn't that he doesn't love us!" "He has never spoken a word about that to me," Razumikhin answered cautiously. "But I did hear something from Praskovia Pavlovna herself, though she is by no means a gossip. And what I heard certainly was rather strange." "And what did you hear?" both the ladies asked at once. "Well, nothing very special. I only learned that the marriage, which only failed to take place through the girl death, was not at all to Praskovia Pavlovna liking. They say, too, the girl was not at all pretty, in fact I am told positively ugly . . . and such an invalid . . . and also strange. But she seems to have had some good qualities. She must have had some good qualities or it quite inexplicable . . . She had no money either and he wouldn't have taken her money into account . . . But it always difficult to judge with these things." "I am sure she was a good girl," Avdotia Romanovna observed briefly. "God forgive me, I simply rejoiced at her death. Though I don't know which of them would have caused more misery to the other he to her or she to him," Pulcheria Alexandrovna concluded. Then she began questioning him tentatively about the scene on the previous day with Luzhin, hesitating and continually glancing at Dunia, obviously to the latter annoyance. This incident evidently made her more uneasy, perhaps even more disturbed, than all the rest. Razumikhin described it in detail again, but this time he added his own conclusions: he openly blamed Raskolnikov for intentionally insulting Peter Petrovich and did not attempt to excuse him because of his illness. "He had planned it before his illness," he added. "I think so, too," Pulcheria Alexandrovna agreed with a dejected air. But she was very surprised to hear Razumikhin express himself so carefully and even respectfully when he was discussing Peter Petrovich. Avdotia Romanovna, too, was struck by it. "So this is your opinion of Peter Petrovich?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna could not resist asking. "I can have no other opinion of your daughter future husband," Razumikhin answered firmly and with warmth, "and I don't say it simply from vulgar politeness, but because . . . simply because Avdotia Romanovna has of her own free will decided to accept this man. If I spoke so rudely of him last night, it was because I was disgustingly drunk and . . . mad besides; yes, mad, crazy, I lost my head completely . . . and this morning I am ashamed of it." He crimsoned and stopped speaking. Avdotia Romanovna flushed, but did not break the silence. She had not uttered a word from the moment they started talking about Luzhin. Without her support Pulcheria Alexandrovna obviously did not know what to do. At last, faltering and continually glancing at her daughter, she confessed that she was extremely worried by one thing in particular. "You see, Dmitri Prokofich," she began. "Can I be open with Dmitri Prokofich, Dunia?" "Of course, Mother," said Avdotia Romanovna emphatically. "This is what it is," she began quickly, as though a weight had been lifted from her mind because she was finally allowed to talk about her troubles. "Very early this morning we got a note from Peter Petrovich in reply to our letter announcing our arrival. He promised to meet us at the station; instead, he sent a servant to bring us the address of these lodgings and to show us the way; and he sent a message that he would be here himself this morning. But this morning this note came from him. You'd better read it yourself; there is one point in it which worries me very much . . . you will soon see what that is, and . . . tell me frankly what you think, Dmitri Prokofich! You know Rodia character better than anyone and no-one can advise us better than you can. Dunia, I should tell you, made her decision at once, but I still don't feel sure how to act and I . . . I've been waiting for your opinion." Razumikhin opened the note, which was dated the previous evening, and read as follows: "DEAR MADAM, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I have the honor to inform you that owing to unforeseen obstacles I was rendered unable to meet you at the railway station; I sent a very competent person with the same object in view. I likewise shall be deprived of the honor of an interview with you tomorrow morning by business in the Senate that does not admit of delay, and also that I may not intrude on your family circle while you are meeting your son, and Avdotia Romanovna her brother. I shall have the honor of visiting you and paying you my respects at your lodgings not later than tomorrow evening at eight o'clock precisely, and herewith I venture to present my earnest and, I may add, imperative request that Rodion Romanovich may not be present at our interview as he offered me a gross and unprecedented assault on the occasion of my visit to him in his illness yesterday, and, moreover, since I desire from you personally an indispensable explanation of a certain point, about which I wish to have your own opinion. I have the honor to inform you, in anticipation, that if, in spite of my request, I meet Rodion Romanovich, I shall be compelled to withdraw immediately and then you have only yourself to blame. I write on the assumption that Rodion Romanovich, who appeared so ill when I visited, suddenly recovered two hours later and may visit you also. I was confirmed in that belief by witnessing him with my own eyes in the residence of a drunken man who was run over and has since died; he gave twenty-five rubles to his daughter, a young woman of notorious behavior, under the pretext of contributing to the funeral, which gravely surprised me knowing what pains you took to raise that sum. I hereby give my special regards to your estimable daughter, Avdotia Romanovna, and I beg you to accept the respectful homage of "Your humble servant, "P. LUZHIN." "What am I to do now, Dmitri Prokofich?" began Pulcheria Alexandrovna, almost weeping. "How can I ask Rodia not to come? Yesterday he insisted so earnestly that we should refuse Peter Petrovich and now we are ordered not to invite Rodia! He will come on purpose if he knows, and . . . what will happen then?" "Act on Avdotia Romanovna decision," Razumikhin answered calmly at once. "Oh, dear! She says . . . goodness knows what she says, she hasn't explained it! She says that it would be best, at least, not that it would be best, but that it absolutely necessary that Rodia should make a point of being here at eight o'clock and that they must meet . . . I didn't even want to show him the letter, I wanted to prevent him from coming somehow, with your help . . . because he is so irritable . . . Besides I don't understand about that drunkard who died and that daughter, and how he could have given that daughter all the money . . . which . . . " "For which you sacrificed so much," put in Avdotia Romanovna. "He was not himself yesterday," Razumikhin said thoughtfully, "if you only knew what he was up to in a restaurant yesterday, though there was sense in it too . . . Hm! He did say something, as we were going home yesterday evening, about a dead man and a girl, but I didn't understand a word . . . But last night, I myself . . . " "The best thing, Mother, would be for us to go to see him ourselves and there we will definitely understand at once what we should do. Besides, it getting late my goodness, it past ten," she cried, looking at a splendid gold enameled watch which hung round her neck on a thin Venetian chain and looked entirely out of keeping with the rest of her dress. "A present from her fianc?(c)," Razumikhin thought. "We must be off, Dunia, we must be off," her mother cried in a flutter. "He will think we are still angry after yesterday if we get there so late. Lord have mercy!" While she said this she was hurriedly putting on her hat and mantle; Dunia, too, put on her things. Her gloves, Razumikhin noticed, were not only shabby but had holes in them, and yet this evident poverty gave the two ladies an air of special dignity which is always found in people who know how to wear poor clothes. Razumikhin looked reverently at Dunia and felt proud of escorting her. "The queen who mended her stockings in prison,"28 he thought, "must have looked every inch a queen and even more of a queen than at sumptuous banquets and celebrations." "My God," exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "little did I think that I should ever fear seeing my son, my darling, darling Rodia! I am afraid, Dmitri Prokofich," she added, glancing at him timidly. "Don't be afraid, Mother," said Dunia, kissing her, "it better to trust him." "Oh, dear, I trust him, but I haven't slept all night," exclaimed the poor woman. They came out into the street. "Do you know, Dunia, when I dozed a little this morning I dreamed of Marfa Petrovna . . . she was all in white . . . she came up to me, took my hand, and shook her head at me, but so sternly, as though she were blaming me . . . Is that a good omen? Oh, dear! Didn't you know, Dmitri Prokofich, that Marfa Petrovna died?" "No, I didn't know; who is Marfa Petrovna?" "She died suddenly; just think . . . " "Afterwards, mamma," put in Dunia. "He doesn't know who Marfa Petrovna is." "Ah, you don't know? And I was thinking that you knew all about us. Forgive me, Dmitri Prokofich, I don't know what I've been thinking about for these past few days. I'm treating you as our providence, so I took it for granted that you knew all about us. I look on you as a relation . . . Don't be angry with me for saying so. Dear me, what the matter with your right hand? Have you knocked it?" "Yes, I bruised it," muttered Razumikhin, overjoyed. "I sometimes speak too much from the heart, and Dunia finds fault with me . . . But, dear me, what a cupboard he lives in! I wonder whether he is awake? Does this woman, his landlady, think it a proper room? Listen, you say he doesn't like to show his feelings, so perhaps I'll annoy him with my . . . weaknesses? Please advise me, Dmitri Prokofich, how should I treat him? I feel so distracted." "Don't question him too much about anything if you see him frown! Don't ask him too much about his health; he doesn't like that." "Ah, Dmitri Prokofich, how hard it is to be a mother! Ah, here are the stairs ... What an awful staircase!" "Mother, you're so pale, don't make yourself upset," said Dunia, caressing her. Then with flashing eyes she added, "He ought to be happy to see you, and you're tormenting yourself so badly." "Wait, I'll look in and see whether he has woken up." The ladies slowly followed Razumikhin, who went on in front of them, and when they reached the landlady door on the fourth floor, they noticed that her door was open a tiny crack and that two keen black eyes were watching them from the darkness inside. When their eyes met, the door was suddenly shut with such a slam that Pulcheria Alexandrovna almost cried out. CHAPTER THREE "HE DOING WELL, REALLY well!" Zossimov shouted cheerfully as they came in. He had arrived ten minutes earlier and was sitting in the same place as before, on the sofa. Raskolnikov was sitting in the opposite corner, fully dressed and more carefully washed and combed than he had been for some time. The room was immediately crowded, yet Nastasia managed to follow the visitors in and stayed to listen. Raskolnikov was actually almost better again compared to his condition the day before, but he was still pale, listless and somber. He looked like a wounded man or someone who has undergone terrible physical pain. His eyebrows were knitted, his lips compressed, his eyes feverish. When he spoke, he said little and did so reluctantly, as though he were performing a duty; his movements were restless. He only needed a sling on his arm or a bandage on his finger to complete the impression of a man with a painful abscess or a broken bone. The pale, somber face lit up for a moment when his mother and sister entered, but this only gave it a look of more intense suffering instead of its listless dejection. The light soon died away, but the look of suffering remained, and Zossimov, watching and studying his patient with all the passion of a young doctor beginning to practice, noticed no joy in him at the arrival of his mother and sister, but a sort of bitter, hidden determination to bear another hour or two of inevitable torture. He saw later that almost every word of their conversation seemed to touch on some sore place and irritate it. But at the same time he marveled at the restraint and self-control of a patient who the previous day had, like a monomaniac, become frenzied at the slightest word. "Yes, I can see myself that I am almost well," said Raskolnikov, giving his mother and sister a welcoming kiss which made Pulcheria Alexandrovna radiant at once. "And I'm not just saying this like I did yesterday," he said, addressing Razumikhin with a friendly handshake. "Yes, I'm actually surprised at him today," began Zossimov, delighted that the ladies had arrived, since he had not even managed to keep up a conversation with his patient for ten minutes. "In another three or four days, if he goes on like this, he will be just as before, that is, as he was a month ago, or two . . . or perhaps even three. It been coming on for a long time . . . yes? Own up, wasn't it maybe your own fault?" he added, with a tentative smile, as though still afraid of irritating him. "Maybe," answered Raskolnikov coldly. "I'd say," continued Zossimov, evidently enjoying himself, "that your complete recovery depends on yourself alone. Now that we can talk, I'd like to remind you that it is essential to avoid the elementary, so to speak, fundamental causes which tend to produce your morbid condition. In that case, you will be cured; if not, it will go from bad to worse. I don't know what these fundamental causes are, but you should. You're an intelligent man, of course, you must have observed yourself. I reckon the first stage of your derangement coincided with you leaving the university. You mustn't be left without an occupation, so work and a definite aim set in front of you might, I imagine, be very beneficial." "Yes, yes; you are absolutely right . . . I'll hurry up and get back to the university, and then everything will go smoothly . . . " Zossimov, who had started giving him advice partly to make an impact on the ladies, was certainly a little mystified when he glanced at his patient and noticed an unmistakably mocking expression on his face. However, it only lasted for an instant. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to thank Zossimov at once, especially for his visit to their apartment the previous night. "What! He saw you last night?" Raskolnikov asked, as though startled. "Then you haven't slept either after your journey." "Rodia, that was only until two o'clock. Dunia and I never go to bed before two at home." "I don't know how to thank him either," Raskolnikov went on suddenly frowning and looking down. "Aside from the question of payment sorry for referring to it" (he turned to Zossimov) "I really don't know what I have done to deserve such special attention from you! I just don't understand it . . . and . . . and . . . in fact, it weighs upon me because I don't understand it. I'm telling you honestly." "Don't be annoyed." Zossimov forced himself to laugh. "Assume that you are my first patient well people like me who are just starting to practice love our first patients as if they were our children, and some almost fall in love with them. And, of course, I don't have a lot of patients." "Let alone him," added Raskolnikov, pointing to Razumikhin, "though he has had nothing from me either but insults and trouble." "What nonsense! You're in a sentimental mood today, aren't you?" shouted Razumikhin. If he had looked more carefully he would have seen that there was no trace of sentimentality in him the opposite, in fact. But Avdotia Romanovna noticed. She was intently and uneasily watching her brother. "As for you, Mother, I don't know how to begin," he went on, as though repeating a lesson learned by heart. "It only today that I've begun to realize just how upset you must have been here yesterday, waiting for me to come back." When he said this, he suddenly held out his hand to his sister, smiling without a word. But in this smile there was a flash of real feeling. Dunia caught it at once, and warmly pressed his hand, overjoyed and thankful. It was the first time he had spoken to her since their argument the previous day. The mother face lighted up with ecstatic happiness at the sight of this conclusive unspoken reconciliation. "Yes, that what I love him for," Razumikhin, exaggerating it all, muttered to himself, with a vigorous turn in his chair. "He has these movements." "And how well he does it all," the mother was thinking to herself. "What generous impulses he has, and how simply, how delicately he put an end to all the misunderstandings with his sister just by holding out his hand at the right minute and looking at her like that . . . And what handsome eyes he has, and how handsome his whole face is! . . . He is even better looking than Dunia . . . But, my goodness, what a suit how terribly he dressed! . . . Vasia, the messenger boy in Afanasy Ivanovich store, is better dressed! I could rush at him and hug him . . . weep over him but I'm afraid . . . Oh dear, he so strange! He talking kindly, but I'm afraid! Why, what am I afraid of? . . . " "Oh, Rodia, you wouldn't believe," she began suddenly, hastily answering his words to her, "how unhappy Dunia and I were yesterday! Now that it all over and done with and we are truly happy again I can tell you. Can you imagine we ran here almost straight from the train to embrace you and that woman ah, here she is! Good morning, Nastasia! . . . She told us at once that you were lying in a high fever and had just run away from the doctor in delirium, and they were looking for you in the streets. You can't imagine how we felt! I couldn't help thinking about the tragic end of Lieutenant Potanchikov, a friend of your father you won't remember him, Rodia who ran out in the same way in a high fever and fell into the well in the courtyard and they couldn't pull him out until next day. Of course, we exaggerated things. We were about to rush off and find Peter Petrovich to ask him to help . . . Because we were alone, totally alone," she said mournfully and stopped short, suddenly, remembering it was still pretty dangerous to speak about Peter Petrovich, although "we are truly happy again." "Yes, yes . . . Of course it very annoying . . . " Raskolnikov muttered in reply, but in such a preoccupied and inattentive way that Dunia gazed at him, perplexed. "What else was it I wanted to say," he went on, trying to remember. "Oh, yes; mother, and Dunia, you too, don't think I didn't mean to come and see you today and just waited for you to come first." "What are you saying, Rodia?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. She too was surprised. "Is he answering us as a duty?" Dunia wondered. "Is he being reconciled and asking for our forgiveness as though he were performing a ritual or repeating a lesson?" "I've only just woken up, and I wanted to come and see you, but I was delayed because of my clothes; I forgot yesterday to ask her . . . Nastasia . . . to wash out the blood . . . I've only just dressed." "Blood! What blood?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in alarm. "Oh, nothing don't worry. It was when I was wandering about yesterday, when I was delirious, I met a man who had been run over . . . a clerk . . . " "Delirious? But you remember everything!" Razumikhin interrupted. "That true," Raskolnikov answered with special carefulness. "I remember everything down to the last detail, and yet why I did that and went there and said that, I can't explain." "A familiar phenomenon," Zossimov interrupted, "actions are sometimes performed in a masterly and remarkably cunning way, while the motive for the actions is deranged and dependent on various morbid impressions it like a dream." "Maybe it really a good thing that he thinks I'm almost mad," thought Raskolnikov. "But people in perfect health act in the same way as well," observed Dunia, looking uneasily at Zossimov. "There is some truth in your observation," the latter replied. "In that sense we certainly all resemble madmen quite often, but with the slight difference that the deranged are even madder, because we have to draw the line somewhere. It true that a normal man hardly even exists. It hard to find one in a dozen perhaps even one in a hundred thousand." At the word "madmen," carelessly dropped by Zossimov in his chatter about his favorite subject, everyone frowned. Raskolnikov seemed not to pay any attention to them and sat there plunged in thought, with a strange smile on his pale lips. He was still meditating on something. "Well, what about the man who was run over? I interrupted you!" Razumikhin shouted swiftly. "What?" Raskolnikov seemed to wake up. "Oh . . . I got spattered with blood when I was helping them carry him to his apartment. By the way, Mother, I did an unforgivable thing yesterday. I was literally out of my mind. I gave away all the money you sent me . . . to his wife for the funeral. She a widow now, tubercular, poor lady . . . three little children, starving . . . nothing in the house . . . there a daughter, too . . . perhaps you'd have given it yourself if you'd seen them. But I had no right to do it, I admit, especially as I knew how you needed the money yourself. To help others you've got to have the right to do it, or else you've just got to accept it." He laughed, "That right, isn't it, Dunia?" "No, it not," answered Dunia firmly. "Pah! You have ideals too," he muttered, looking at her almost with hatred, and smiling sarcastically. "I ought to have thought about that ... Well, that praiseworthy, and it better for you . . . and if you reach a line you won't cross, you'll be unhappy . . . and if you cross it, maybe you'll be even unhappier . . . But that all nonsense," he added irritably, annoyed that he got carried away. "I only meant to ask mother to forgive me," he concluded, shortly and abruptly. "That enough, Rodia, I'm sure that everything you do is very good," said his mother, delighted. "Don't be too sure," he answered, twisting his mouth into a smile. A silence followed. There was a constraint in all this conversation, and in the silence, and in the reconciliation, and in the forgiveness, and everyone felt it. "It is as though they were afraid of me," Raskolnikov was thinking to himself, looking sideways at his mother and sister. Pulcheria Alexandrovna definitely grew more timid the longer she kept silent. "Yet when they were gone I seemed to love them so much," flashed through his mind. "Do you know, Rodia, Marfa Petrovna is dead," Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly blurted out. "What Marfa Petrovna?" "Lord have mercy on us Marfa Petrovna Svidrigailov. I wrote you so much about her." "A-a-h! Yes, I remember . . . So she dead! Really?" he roused himself suddenly, as if waking up. "What did she die of?" "Just imagine, she died so suddenly," Pulcheria Alexandrovna answered hurriedly, encouraged by his curiosity. "On the same day I sent you that letter! Would you believe it, that terrible man seems to have been the cause of her death. They say he used to beat her horribly." "Why, were they on such bad terms?" he asked, addressing his sister. "No, not at all; exactly the opposite. With her, he was always very patient, even considerate. In fact, all those seven years of their married life he gave way to her, often too much, in fact. All of a sudden he seemed to have lost his patience." "Then he couldn't have been so nasty if he controlled himself for seven years? You seem to be defending him, Dunia?" "No, no, he a terrible man! I can't imagine anything more disgusting!" Dunia answered, almost with a shudder, wrinkling up her brows and sinking into thought. "It happened in the morning," Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on hurriedly. "And immediately afterwards she ordered the horses to be harnessed to drive to the town immediately after dinner. She always used to drive to the town in cases like that. They said she ate a really good dinner . . . " "After the beating?" "That was always her . . . habit; and immediately after dinner, so she wasn't late setting out, she went to the bathhouse ... You see, she was having some bath treatment. They have a cold spring there, and she used to bathe in it regularly every day, and no sooner did she get into the water when she suddenly had a stroke!" "I should think so," said Zossimov. "And did he beat her badly?" "What does that matter!" put in Dunia. "Hmm! Mother, I don't know why you want to tell us gossip like that," said Raskolnikov irritably, almost in spite of himself. "My dear, I don't know what to talk about," Pulcheria Alexandrovna said. "Why, are you all afraid of me?" he asked, with a constrained smile. "That definitely true," said Dunia, looking directly and sternly at her brother. "Mother was crossing herself with terror as she came up the stairs." His face worked, as though in convulsion. "What are you saying, Dunia! Don't be angry, please, Rodia . . . Why did you say that, Dunia?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, overwhelmed. "You see, coming here, I was dreaming all the way, in the train, how we would meet, how we would talk over everything together . . . And I was so happy, I didn't notice the journey! But what am I saying? I am happy now ... You shouldn't, Dunia . . . I am happy now just to see you, Rodia . . . " "Shsh, Mother," he muttered in confusion, not looking at her, but pressing her hand. "We shall have time to talk freely about everything!" As he said this, he was suddenly overwhelmed with confusion and turned pale. Again that awful sensation he had known of late passed with deadly chill over his soul. Again it became suddenly plain and perceptible to him that he had just told a terrible lie: that now he would never be able to talk freely about everything, that never again would he be able to talk freely about anything to anyone. The anguish of this thought was such that for a moment he almost forgot himself. He got up from his seat, and not looking at anyone walked towards the door. "What are you doing?" cried Razumikhin, clutching him by the arm. He sat down again, and began looking around him in silence. They were all looking at him, perplexed. "But what are you all so silent about?" he shouted, suddenly and entirely unexpectedly. "Say something! What the use of sitting like this? Come on, speak! Let talk . . . We meet and sit in silence . . . Come on, anything!" "Thank God; I was afraid the same thing as yesterday was beginning again," said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself. "What the matter, Rodia?" asked Avdotia Romanovna, distrustfully. "Oh, nothing! I remembered something," he answered, and suddenly laughed. "Well, if you remembered something; that all right! . . . I was beginning to think . . . " muttered Zossimov, getting up from the sofa. "It is time for me to be off. I will look in again perhaps . . . if I can . . . " He made his bows, and went out. "What an excellent man!" observed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "Yes, excellent, splendid, well-educated, intelligent," Raskolnikov began, suddenly speaking with surprising rapidity, and a liveliness he had not shown until then. "I can't remember where I met him before my illness . . . I think I met him somewhere . . . And this is a good man, too," he nodded at Razumikhin. "Do you like him, Dunia?" he asked her; and suddenly, for some unknown reason, laughed. "Very much," answered Dunia. "Pah! What a pig you are," Razumikhin protested, blushing in terrible embarrassment, and he got up from his chair. Pulcheria Alexandrovna smiled faintly, but Raskolnikov laughed out loud. "Where are you off to?" "I must go." "You don't need to go at all. Stay. Zossimov has gone, so you must. Don't go. What the time? Is it twelve o'clock? What a pretty watch you've got, Dunia. But why are you all silent again? I'm doing all the talking." "It was a present from Marfa Petrovna," answered Dunia. "And a very expensive one!" added Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "A-ah! What a big one! Hardly like a lady ." "I like that sort," said Dunia. "So it is not a present from her fianc?(c)," thought Razumikhin, and was senselessly delighted. "I thought it was a present from Luzhin," observed Raskolnikov. "No, he has not given Dunia any presents yet." "A-ah! Do you remember, Mother, when I was in love and I wanted to get married?" he said suddenly, looking at his mother, who was confused by the sudden change of subject and the way he spoke about it. "Oh yes, my dear." Pulcheria Alexandrovna exchanged glances with Dunia and Razumikhin. "Hmm, yes. What can I tell you? Actually, I don't remember much. She was such a sickly girl," he went on, growing dreamy and looking down again. "A real invalid. She was fond of giving to the poor, and was always dreaming of being a nun, and once she burst into tears when she started talking to me about it. Yes, yes, I remember. I remember very well. She was an ugly little thing. I really don't know what drew me to her then I think it was because she was always ill. If she had been lame or hunchback, I think I would have liked her even more," he smiled dreamily. "Yes, it was a sort of a spring delirium." "No, it wasn't just a spring delirium," said Dunia, with warm feeling. He gave his sister a strained, intent look, but did not hear or did not understand her words. Then, completely lost in thought, he got up, went up to his mother, kissed her, went back to his place and sat down. "You love her even now?" said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, touched. "Her? Now? Oh, yes . . . You ask about her? No . . . somehow it all seems like it in another world . . . and so long ago. And in fact everything happening here seems far away somehow." He looked attentively at them. "You now . . . I seem to be looking at you from a thousand miles away . . . but, Lord knows why we are talking about that! And what the use of asking about it," he added with annoyance and, biting his nails, he fell into a dreamy silence again. "What a wretched apartment you have, Rodia! It like a tomb," said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, suddenly breaking the oppressive silence. "I am sure it half because of your room here that you have become so melancholy." "My room," he answered, listlessly. "Yes, the room had a great deal to do with it . . . I thought that, too . . . If only you knew, though, what a strange thing you said just now, Mother," he said, laughing strangely. A little more, and their companionship, this mother and sister, with him after three years' absence, this intimate tone of conversation, in the face of the utter impossibility of really speaking about anything everything would have been beyond his power of endurance. But there was one urgent matter which must be settled one way or another that day he had decided when he woke up. Now he was glad he had remembered it, because now he had a means of escape. "Listen, Dunia," he began, gravely and dryly, "of course I asked you to forgive me yesterday, but I think I ought to tell you again that I'm not backing down from my decision. It me or Luzhin. If I'm a bad person, you mustn't be; one is enough. If you marry Luzhin, I shall immediately stop treating you as my sister." "Rodia, Rodia! It is the same as yesterday again," Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried, mournfully. "And why do you call yourself a bad person? I can't bear it. Yesterday you said the same thing." "Rodia," Dunia answered firmly and with the same dryness. "You're making a mistake. I thought it over last night, and I discovered what it was. It all because you seem to think I am sacrificing myself to someone for someone else. That not the case at all. I'm just marrying for my own sake, because things are hard for me. Though, of course, I shall be glad if I manage to be useful to my family. But that not the chief motive for my decision . . . " "She lying," he thought to himself, biting his nails vindictively. "What a proud person she is! She won't even admit she wants to do it out of charity! Too high and mighty! What terrible people! They even love as if they hate . . . And how I . . . hate them all!" "In fact," continued Dunia, "I'm marrying Peter Petrovich because I have decided to choose the lesser of two evils. I intend to do everything he asks me to do honestly, so I'm not deceiving him . . . Why did you smile just now?" She, too, flushed, and there was a gleam of anger in her eyes. "Everything?" he asked, with a malignant grin. "Within certain limits. Both the manner and form of Peter Petrovich courtship showed me at once what he wanted. He may, of course, think too highly of himself, but I hope he respects me, too . . . Why are you laughing again?" "And why are you blushing again? You're lying, Dunia. You're lying on purpose, just because of your feminine obstinacy, just to hold your own against me . . . You can't respect Luzhin. I've seen him and talked to him. So you're selling yourself for money, and so in any case you're behaving badly, and I'm at least glad that you can blush about it." "It not true. I'm not lying," cried Dunia, losing her temper. "I wouldn't marry him if I weren't satisfied that he respects me and thinks highly of me. I wouldn't marry him if I weren't absolutely satisfied that I can respect him. Fortunately, I've had convincing proof of it today . . . and a marriage like that not cheap, as you say it is! And even if you were right, if I really had decided to behave badly, isn't it merciless of you to speak to me like that? Why do you demand I have a heroism that maybe you don't have either? It dictatorial; it tyrannical. If I ruin anyone, then I'll only be ruining myself . . . I'm not committing a murder. Why are you looking at me like that? Why are you so pale? Rodia, darling, what the matter?" "Lord have mercy! You made him faint," cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "No, no, nonsense! It nothing. A little dizziness not fainting. You've got fainting on the brain. Hmm, yes, what was I saying? Oh, yes. In what way will you get convincing proof today that you can respect him, and that he . . . respects you, you said earlier. I think that what you said?" "Mother, show Rodia Peter Petrovich letter," said Dunia. With trembling hands, Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave him the letter. He took it with great interest, but, before opening it, he suddenly looked with a sort of amazement at Dunia. "It is strange," he said, slowly, as though struck by a new idea. "What am I making such a fuss for? What is it all about? Marry who you like!" He said this almost to himself, but said it aloud, and looked for some time at his sister, as though he were puzzled. He opened the letter at last, still with the same look of strange amazement on his face. Then, slowly and attentively, he started reading, and read it through twice. Pulcheria Alexandrovna showed particular anxiety, and in fact everyone expected something strange to happen. "What surprises me," he began, after a short pause, handing the letter to his mother, but not addressing anyone in particular, "is that he is a businessman, a lawyer, that his conversation is definitely pretentious, and yet he writes such an uneducated letter." They were all astonished. They had expected something totally different. "But they all write like that, you know," Razumikhin observed, abruptly. "Have you read it?" "Yes." "We showed him, Rodia. We . . . consulted him just now," Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, embarrassed. "That just the jargon of the courts," Razumikhin put in. "Legal documents have always been written like that." "Legal? Yes, it just legal business language not entirely uneducated, and not quite educated business language!" "Peter Petrovich makes no secret of the fact that he had a cheap education; in fact, he is proud of having made his own way," Avdotia Romanovna observed, a little offended by her brother tone. "Well, if he proud of it, he has reason to be, I don't deny it. You seem to be offended, sister, that I only made such a frivolous criticism of the letter; you think that I talk about such unimportant matters in order to annoy you on purpose. It exactly the opposite: a stylistic observation occurred to me which is definitely not irrelevant given the way things stand at the moment. There one expression, ?Äòblame yourselves,' which has been put in very significantly and clearly, and there also a threat that he'll leave at once if I'm present. That threat to leave is equivalent to a threat to abandon you both if you are disobedient, and to abandon you now after summoning you to Petersburg. Well, what do you think? Can one resent such an expression from Luzhin, as we should if he" (he pointed to Razumikhin) "had written it, or Zossimov, or one of us?" "N-no," answered Dunia, with more animation. "I saw clearly that it was too naively expressed, and that perhaps he doesn't know how to write well . . . that a fair criticism, Rodia. I didn't expect, in fact . . . " "It is expressed in a legal style, and maybe it sounds coarser than he intended. But I must disillusion you a little. There is one expression in the letter, one slander about me, and a pretty despicable one at that. I gave the money last night to the widow, a tubercular woman in serious difficulties, and not ?Äòunder the pretext of contributing to the funeral,' but simply to pay for the funeral, and not to the daughter a young woman, as he writes, of notorious behavior (whom I saw last night for the first time in my life) but to the widow. In all this I think he has been suspiciously hasty to slander me and to make us disagree. It is expressed again in legal jargon, that is to say, with too obvious a display of the aim, and with a very naive eagerness. He is an intelligent man, but to act sensibly, intelligence is not enough. It all shows him up for who he really is and . . . I don't think he has any great respect for you. I'm telling you this just to warn you, because I sincerely wish for your own good . . . " Dunia did not reply. Her decision had been taken. She was just waiting to see what would happen that evening. "Then what have you decided, Rodia?" asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was more uneasy than ever at the sudden new businesslike tone of his talk. "What decision?" "You see Peter Petrovich writes that you mustn't be with us this evening, and that he will go away if you come. So will you . . . come?" "That, of course, is not for me to decide, but for you first and foremost, if you are not offended by such a request; and secondly, by Dunia, if she, too, is not offended. I will do what you think best," he added dryly. "Dunia has already decided, and I fully agree with her," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare. "I decided to urge you, Rodia, to be with us at this interview," said Dunia. "Will you come?" "Yes." "I will ask you too to be with us at eight o'clock," she said, addressing Razumikhin. "Mother, I am inviting him, too." "Quite right, Dunia. Well, since you have decided," added Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "so be it. I shall feel easier myself. I do not like concealment and deception. Better for us to have the whole truth, whether Peter Petrovich is angry or not!" CHAPTER FOUR AT THAT MOMENT THE door was softly opened, and a young girl walked into the room, looking timidly around her. Everyone turned towards her with surprise and curiosity. At first sight, Raskolnikov did not recognize her. It was Sofia Semionovna Marmeladov. He had seen her yesterday for the first time, but at such a moment, in such surroundings and in such clothing, that his memory retained a very different image of her. Now she was a modestly and poorly-dressed young girl, very young, almost like a child, in fact, with a modest and refined manner, with a candid but somewhat frightened-looking face. She was wearing a very plain indoor dress and a shabby old-fashioned hat, but she was still carrying a parasol. Unexpectedly finding the room full of people, she was not so much embarrassed as completely overwhelmed with shyness, like a little child. She was even about to retreat. "Oh . . . it you!" said Raskolnikov, extremely astonished, and he, too, was confused. He at once recollected that his mother and sister knew through Luzhin letter of "some young woman of notorious behavior." He had only just been protesting against Luzhin slander and declaring that he had seen the girl last night for the first time, and suddenly she had walked in. He remembered, too, that he had not protested against the expression "of notorious behavior." All this passed vaguely and fleetingly through his brain, but looking at her more intently, he saw that the humiliated creature was so humiliated that he felt suddenly sorry for her. When she made a movement to retreat in terror, it sent a pang to his heart. "I did not expect you," he said, hurriedly, with a look that made her stop. "Please sit down. You come, no doubt, from Katerina Ivanovna. Allow me not there. Sit here . . . " At Sonia entrance, Razumikhin, who had been sitting on one of Raskolnikov three chairs, close to the door, got up to allow her to enter. Raskolnikov had at first shown her the place on the sofa where Zossimov had been sitting, but feeling that the sofa he used as a bed was a little too intimate, he hurriedly motioned her to Razumikhin chair. "You sit here," he said to Razumikhin, putting him on the sofa. Sonia sat down, almost shaking with terror, and looked timidly at the two ladies. It was evidently almost inconceivable to herself that she could sit down beside them. At the thought of it, she was so frightened that she hurriedly got up again, and in utter confusion addressed Raskolnikov. "I . . . I . . . have come for one minute. Forgive me for disturbing you," she began falteringly. "I came from Katerina Ivanovna , and she had no-one to send. Katerina Ivanovna told me to beg you . . . to be at the service . . . in the morning . . . at Mitrofanievsky . . . and then ... to us . . . to her . . . to do her the honor . . . she told me to beg you . . . " Sonia stammered and ceased speaking. "I will try, certainly, for certain," answered Raskolnikov. He, too, stood up, and he, too, faltered and could not finish his sentence. "Please sit down," he said, suddenly. "I want to talk to you. Maybe you're in a hurry, but please spare me two minutes," and he drew up a chair for her. Sonia sat down again, and again timidly she took a hurried, frightened look at the two ladies, and dropped her eyes. Raskolnikov pale face flushed, a shudder passed over him, his eyes glowed. "Mother," he said, firmly and insistently, "this is Sofia Semionovna Marmeladov, the daughter of the unfortunate Mr. Marmeladov who was run over yesterday in front of me, the man who I was just telling you about." Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at Sonia, and screwed up her eyes a little. In spite of her embarrassment before Rodia urgent and challenging gaze, she could not deny herself that satisfaction. Dunia gazed gravely and intently into the poor girl face, and scrutinized her, perplexed. Sonia, hearing herself introduced, tried to raise her eyes again, but was more embarrassed than ever. "I wanted to ask you," said Raskolnikov, hastily, "how things were arranged yesterday. You weren't bothered by the police, for instance?" "No, that was all right . . . it was too evident, the cause of death . . . they didn't bother us . . . only the lodgers are angry." "Why?" "Because the body has remained there for so long. You see, it is hot now. So today they will carry it to the cemetery, into the chapel, until tomorrow. At first Katerina Ivanovna was unwilling, but now she sees herself that it necessary . . . " "Today, then?" "She wanted to ask you to do us the honor of being in the church tomorrow for the service and then to come to the funeral lunch." "She is giving a funeral lunch?" "Yes . . . just a little . . . She told me to thank you very much for helping us yesterday. If it weren't for you, we would have had nothing for the funeral." All at once her lips and chin began trembling, but, with an effort, she controlled herself, looking down again. During the conversation, Raskolnikov watched her carefully. She had a thin, very thin, pale little face, rather irregular and angular, with a sharp little nose and chin. She could not have been called pretty, but her blue eyes were so clear, and when they lit up there was such a kindliness and simplicity in her expression that one could not help being attracted. Her face, and her whole figure in fact, had another peculiar characteristic. In spite of the fact that she was eighteen years old, she looked almost like a little girl almost like a child. And in some of her gestures this childishness seemed almost absurd. "But has Katerina Ivanovna been able to manage with such a small amount of money? Does she even intend to have a funeral lunch?" Raskolnikov asked, persistently keeping up the conversation. "The coffin will be plain, of course . . . and everything will be plain, so it won't cost much. Katerina Ivanovna and I have worked it all out so there'll be enough left . . . and Katerina Ivanovna was very anxious that how it should be. You know we can't . . . it a comfort to her . . . she is like that, you know . . . " "I understand, I understand . . . of course . . . why are you looking at my room like that? My mother has just said it looks like a tomb." "You gave us everything yesterday," Sonia said suddenly, in reply, in a loud rapid whisper; and again she looked down in confusion. Her lips and chin were trembling once more. She had been struck at once by Raskolnikov poor surroundings, and now these words broke out spontaneously. A silence followed. There was a light in Dunia eyes, and even Pulcheria Alexandrovna looked kindly at Sonia. "Rodia," she said, getting up, "we shall have dinner together, of course. Come on, Dunia . . . And, Rodia, you had better go for a little walk, and then rest and lie down before you come to see us . . . I am afraid we have exhausted you . . . " "Yes, yes, I'll come," he answered, getting up fussily. "But I have something to see to." "But surely you're going to have dinner together?" cried Razumikhin, looking in surprise at Raskolnikov. "What do you mean?" "Yes, yes, I'm coming . . . of course, of course! And you stay a minute. You don't want him just now, do you, Mother? Or maybe I'm taking him from you?" "Oh, no, no. And please, Dmitri Prokofich, will you have dinner with us?" "Please do," added Dunia. Razumikhin bowed, absolutely radiant. For a moment, they were all strangely embarrassed. "Goodbye, Rodia, that is, until we meet: I don't like saying goodbye. Goodbye, Nastasia. Ah, I have said goodbye again." Pulcheria Alexandrovna meant to say goodbye to Sonia, too; but it somehow failed to come off, and she went in a flutter out of the room. But Avdotia Romanovna seemed to wait her turn, and following her mother out, gave Sonia an attentive, courteous bow. Sonia, in confusion, gave a hurried, frightened curtsy. There was a look of poignant discomfort in her face, as though Avdotia Romanovna courtesy and attention were oppressive and painful to her. "Dunia, goodbye," called Raskolnikov, in the passage. "Give me your hand." "Why, I did give it to you. Have you forgotten?" said Dunia, turning warmly and awkwardly to him. "Never mind, give it to me again." And he squeezed her fingers warmly. Dunia smiled, flushed, pulled her hand away, and went off happy. "Come, that wonderful," he said to Sonia, going back and looking brightly at her. "God give peace to the dead; the living still have to live. That right, isn't it?" Sonia looked surprised at the sudden brightness of his face. He looked at her for some moments in silence. The whole history of the dead father floated in his memory at those moments . . . "Goodness, Dunia," Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, as soon as they were in the street, "I really feel relieved myself at coming away more at ease. How little did I think yesterday in the train that was something I could ever be glad about!" "I'm telling you again, Mother, he is still very ill. Don't you see it? Perhaps worrying about us upset him. We must be patient, and there is a lot that can be forgiven." "Well, you weren't very patient!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna caught her up, hotly and jealously. "Do you know, Dunia, I was looking at you two. You are the very portrait of him, and not so much in face as in soul. You are both melancholy, both gloomy and hot-tempered, both proud and both generous . . . Surely he can't be an egoist, Dunia. Eh? When I think of what is in store for us this evening, my heart sinks!" "Don't be uneasy, Mother. What will be will be." "Dunia, just think what a position we are in! What if Peter Petrovich breaks it off?" poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna blurted out, incautiously. "He won't be worth much if he does," answered Dunia, sharply and contemptuously. "We did well to leave," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly broke in. "He was in a hurry about some business or other. If he gets out and has a breath of fresh air . . . it is horribly close in his room . . . But where can you get a breath of fresh air here? Even the streets here feel like shut-up rooms. Goodness! What a town! . . . Stay . . . this side . . . they will crush you they're carrying something. It is a piano they have got . . . look how they are pushing . . . I am very much afraid of that young woman, too." "What young woman, Mother? "That Sofia Semionovna, who was there just now." "Why?" "I have a presentiment, Dunia. Well, believe it or not, as soon as she came in, that very minute, I felt that she was the chief cause of the problem . . . " "Nothing of the sort!" cried Dunia, in vexation. "What nonsense, with your presentiments, Mother! He only first met her the evening before, and he did not recognize her when she came in." "Well, you will see . . . She worries me; but you will see, you will see! I was so frightened. She was gazing at me with those eyes. I could scarcely sit still in my chair when he began introducing her, do you remember? It seems so strange, but Peter Petrovich writes like that about her, and he introduces her to us to you! So he must think a great deal of her." "People will write anything. We were talked about and written about, too. Have you forgotten? I am sure that she a good girl and that it all nonsense." "God grant it may be!" "And Peter Petrovich is a despicable slanderer," Dunia snapped out, suddenly. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was crushed; the conversation was not resumed. "I will tell you what I want with you," said Raskolnikov, drawing Razumikhin to the window. "Then I will tell Katerina Ivanovna that you are coming," Sonia said hurriedly, preparing to depart. "One moment, Sofia Semionovna. We have no secrets. You are not in our way. I want to have another word or two with you. Listen!" he turned suddenly to Razumikhin again. "You know that . . . what his name . . . Porfiry Petrovich?" "I should think so! He a relation. Why?" added Razumikhin, with interest. "Isn't he managing that case . . . you know about that murder? . . . You were talking about it yesterday." "Yes . . . well?" Razumikhin eyes opened wide. "He was asking about people who had pawned things, and I have some pledges there, too trinkets a ring my sister gave me as a keepsake when I left home, and my father silver watch they are only worth five or six rubles altogether . . . but I value them. So what should I do now? I do not want to lose the things, especially the watch. I was trembling just now in case my mother would ask to look at it, when we were talking about Dunia watch. It the only thing of my father left. She'd be ill if it were lost. You know what women are like. So tell me what to do. I know I ought to have given notice at the police station, but would it not be better to go straight to Porfiry? What do you think? We might get it over with more quickly. You see, Mother may ask for it before dinner." "Certainly not to the police station. We should see Porfiry," Razumikhin shouted in extraordinary excitement. "I'm so happy about that! Let go now. It a couple of steps. We'll definitely be able find him." "Good, let go." "And he will be very, very pleased to meet you. I have often talked to him about you; I was speaking to him about you yesterday. Let go. So you knew the old woman? So that it! It all turning out wonderfully . . . Oh, yes, Sofia Ivanovna . . . " "Sofia Semionovna," corrected Raskolnikov. "Sofia Semionovna, this is my friend Razumikhin. He a good person." "If you have to go now," Sonia was beginning, not looking at Razumikhin at all, and even more embarrassed. "Let go," Raskolnikov decided. "I'll visit you today, Sofia Semionovna. Just tell me where you live." He was not exactly uneasy, but he seemed hurried and avoided her eyes. Sonia gave him her address, and blushed as she did so. They all went out together. "Don't you lock up?" asked Razumikhin, following him onto the stairs. "Never," answered Raskolnikov. "I've been meaning to buy a lock for the last two years. People who don't need any locks are happy," he said, laughing, to Sonia. They stood still in the gateway. "Do you go right here, Sofia Semionovna? How did you find me, by the way?" he added, as though he wanted to say something different. He wanted to look at her soft clear eyes, but this was not easy. "You gave your address to Polenka yesterday." "Polenka? Oh, yes; Polenka, that the little girl. She your sister? Did I give her the address?" "Why, had you forgotten?" "No, I remember." "I'd heard my father mention you . . . only I did not know your name, and he did not know it. And now I came . . . and as I had learnt your name, I asked today, ?ÄòWhere does Mr. Raskolnikov live?' I did not know you only had a room too . . . Goodbye, I will tell Katerina Ivanovna." She was extremely glad to escape at last; she went away looking down, hurrying to get out of sight as soon as possible, to walk the twenty steps to the turning on the right and to be at last alone, and then moving rapidly along, looking at no-one, noticing nothing, to think, to remember, to meditate on every word, every detail. Never, never had she felt anything like this. Dimly and unconsciously a whole new world was opening in front of her. She remembered suddenly that Raskolnikov meant to come to see her that day, perhaps at once! "Only not today, please, not today!" she kept muttering with a sinking heart, as though entreating someone, like a frightened child. "Mercy! To see me . . . to that room . . . he will find . . . oh, dear!" She was incapable at that instant of noticing the stranger who was watching her and following at her heels. He had accompanied her from the gateway. At the moment when Razumikhin, Raskolnikov and she were standing still as they said goodbye on the pavement, this gentleman, who was just passing, started when he heard Sonia words: "and I asked where Mr. Raskolnikov lived?" He cast a rapid but attentive glance at all three of them, especially at Raskolnikov, to whom Sonia was speaking; then looked back and noted the house. All this was done in an instant as he passed, and trying not to betray his interest, he walked on more slowly as though he were waiting for something. He was waiting for Sonia; he saw that they were leaving, and that Sonia was going back home. "Home? Where? I've seen that face somewhere," he thought. "I must find out." At the turning he crossed over, looked round, and saw Sonia coming the same way without noticing anything. She turned the corner. He followed her on the other side. After about fifty paces he crossed over again, overtook her and kept two or three yards behind her. He was a man of about fifty, rather tall and thickly set, with broad high shoulders which made him look as if he stooped a little. He wore good, fashionable clothes, and looked like he had some kind of standing in society. He carried a handsome cane, which he tapped on the pavement every step he took; his gloves were spotless. He had a broad, rather pleasant face with high cheek-bones and a fresh color not often seen in Petersburg. His flaxen hair was still thick, and only touched here and there with gray, and his thick square beard was even lighter than his hair. His eyes were blue and had a cold and thoughtful look; his lips were crimson. He was a remarkably well-preserved man and looked much younger than his years. When Sonia came out on the canal bank, they were the only two people on the pavement. He noticed that she was dreamy and lost in her thoughts. On reaching the house where she lodged, Sonia turned in at the gate; he followed her, seeming rather surprised. In the courtyard she turned to the right corner. "Bah!" muttered the unknown gentleman, and mounted the stairs behind her. Only then did Sonia notice him. She reached the third storey, turned down the passage, and rang at No. 9. On the door was inscribed in chalk, "Kapernaumov, Tailor." "Bah!" the stranger repeated again, wondering at the strange coincidence, and he rang next door, at No. 8. The doors were two or three yards apart. "You lodge at Kapernaumov ," he said, looking at Sonia and laughing. "He altered a waistcoat for me yesterday. I am staying close by here at Madame Resslich . How odd!" Sonia looked at him attentively. "We are neighbors," he went on gaily. "I only came to town the day before yesterday. Anyway, goodbye for now." Sonia made no reply; the door opened and she slipped in. She felt for some reason ashamed and uneasy. On the way to Porfiry , Razumikhin was obviously excited. "That wonderful, my friend," he repeated several times, "I'm glad! I'm glad!" "What are you glad about?" Raskolnikov thought to himself. "I didn't know you pledged things at the old woman as well. And . . . was it long ago? I mean, was it long since you were there?" "What a simple-hearted fool he is!" "When was it?" Raskolnikov stopped still to recollect. "Two or three days before her death, it must have been. But I am not going to redeem the things now," he put in with a sort of hurried and conspicuous concern about his possessions. "I've not more than a silver ruble left . . . after last night accursed delirium!" He laid special emphasis on the delirium. "Yes, yes," Razumikhin hastened to agree with what was not clear. "Then that why you . . . were struck . . . partly . . . you know in your delirium you kept mentioning some rings or chains! Yes, yes . . . that clear, it all clear now." "My God! The idea must have really spread far. This man will go to the stake for me, and now he delighted that we cleared up the fact that I mentioned rings when I was delirious! What a hold the idea must have on all of them!" "Shall we find him?" he asked suddenly. "Oh, yes," Razumikhin answered quickly. "He a nice person, you'll see, my friend. Pretty clumsy that to say, he has real manners, but I mean clumsy in a different sense. He intelligent, very intelligent, in fact, but he has his own range of ideas . . . He is incredulous, skeptical, cynical . . . he likes to impose on people, or rather to make fun of them. His method is old, circumstantial . . . But he understands his work . . . thoroughly . . . Last year he cleared up a murder case the police had hardly a clue about. He is very, very anxious to meet you." "On what grounds is he so anxious?" "Oh, it not exactly . . . you see, since you've been ill I happen to have mentioned you several times . . . So, when he heard about you . . . about the fact that you were a law student and that you were unable to finish your studies, he said, ?ÄòWhat a pity!' And so I concluded . . . from everything together, not only that; yesterday, Zametov . . . you know, Rodia, I talked some nonsense on the way home to you yesterday, when I was drunk . . . I'm afraid, my friend, that you will exaggerate it, you see." "What? That they think I am a madman? Maybe they are right," he said with a constrained smile. "Yes, yes . . . I mean, no! . . . But everything I said (and there was something else too) was all nonsense, drunken nonsense." "But why are you apologizing? I am so sick of it all!" Raskolnikov cried with exaggerated irritability. It was partly false, however. "I know, I know, I understand. Believe me, I understand. I'm ashamed to talk about it." "If you're ashamed to talk about it, then don't." Both were silent. Razumikhin was more than ecstatic and Raskolnikov perceived it with repulsion. He was alarmed, too, by what Razumikhin had just said about Porfiry. "I shall have to put on a show for him too," he thought, with a beating heart, and he turned white, "and do it naturally. But the most natural thing would be to do nothing at all. Carefully do nothing at all! No, carefully would not be natural again . . . Oh, well, we'll see how it turns out . . . We'll see . . . right now. Is it a good thing to go or not? The butterfly flies to the light. My heart is beating, that what bad!" "In this gray house," said Razumikhin. "The most important thing is, does Porfiry know that I was at the old hag apartment yesterday . . . and did he ask about the blood? I must find that out immediately, as soon as I go in, find out from his face; otherwise . . . I'll find out, if it destroys me." "I was wondering, my friend," he said suddenly, addressing Razumikhin with a sly smile, "I've been noticing all day that you seem to be strangely excited. Isn't that so?" "Excited? Not at all," said Razumikhin, deeply embarrassed. "Yes, my friend, I can tell you, it noticeable. You sat on your chair in a way I've never seen you sit, on the edge somehow, and you seemed to be wriggling all the time. You kept jumping up for no reason. One moment you were angry, and the next your face looked like candy. You even blushed; especially when you were invited to dinner, you blushed terribly." "Nothing of the sort, nonsense! What do you mean?" "But why are you wriggling out of it, like a schoolboy? My God, he blushing again." "What a pig you are!" "But why are you so shamefaced about it? Romeo! Stay, I'll tell of you today. Ha-ha-ha! I'll make mother laugh, and someone else, too . . . " "Listen, listen, listen, this is serious . . . What next, you fiend!" Razumikhin was utterly overwhelmed, turning cold with horror. "What will you tell them? Come on . . . God, what a pig you are!" "You are like a summer rose. And if only you knew how it suits you; a Romeo over six foot high! And how you've washed today you even cleaned your nails! That unheard of! I think you've even got grease on your hair! Bend down." "Pig!" Raskolnikov laughed as though he could not restrain himself, and Razumikhin also started to laugh; soon they were entering Porfiry Petrovich apartment. This is what Raskolnikov wanted: from inside they could be heard laughing as they came in through the passage. "Not a word here or I'll . . . brain you!" Razumikhin whispered furiously, seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder. CHAPTER FIVE RASKOLNIKOV WAS ALREADY ENTERING the room. He came in looking as though he would have the utmost difficulty not to burst out laughing again. Behind him Razumikhin strode in gawky and awkward, shamefaced and red as a peony, with an utterly crestfallen and ferocious expression. His face and figure really were ridiculous at that moment and amply justified Raskolnikov laughter. Raskolnikov, without waiting for an introduction, bowed to Porfiry Petrovich, who stood in the middle of the room looking inquiringly at them. He held out his hand to shake Porfiry , still apparently making desperate efforts to subdue his mirth and utter a few words to introduce himself. But he had no sooner succeeded in assuming a serious air and muttering something when he suddenly glanced again at Razumikhin, as if by accident, and could no longer control himself: his stifled laughter broke out the more irresistibly the more he tried to restrain it. The extraordinary ferocity with which Razumikhin received this "spontaneous" mirth gave the whole scene the appearance of the most natural playfulness. Razumikhin strengthened this impression as if on purpose. "Idiot! You fiend," he roared, waving his arm which at once struck a little round table with an empty tea-glass on it. Everything was sent flying and crashing. "But why break chairs, gentlemen? You know it a loss to the Crown," Porfiry Petrovich quoted gaily.29 Raskolnikov was still laughing, with his hand in Porfiry Petrovich , but anxious not to overdo it, waited for the right moment to put a natural end to it. Razumikhin, completely confused by upsetting the table and smashing the glass, gazed gloomily at the fragments, swore and turned sharply to the window where he stood looking out with his back to the company with a fierce frown, seeing nothing. Porfiry Petrovich laughed and was ready to go on laughing, but was obviously looking for explanations. Zametov had been sitting in the corner, but he got up when the visitors came in and was standing in expectation with a smile on his lips, though he looked with surprise and even it seemed incredulity at the whole scene and at Raskolnikov with a certain embarrassment. Zametov unexpected presence struck Raskolnikov unpleasantly. "I've got to consider that," he thought. "Excuse me, please," he began, affecting extreme embarrassment. "Raskolnikov." "Not at all, very pleasant to see you . . . and how pleasantly you've come in . . . Won't he even say good morning?" Porfiry Petrovich nodded at Razumikhin. "I swear I have no idea why he is in such a rage with me. I only told him as we came along that he was like Romeo . . . and proved it. And that was all, I think!" "Pig!" Razumikhin spat out, without turning round. "There must have been very serious grounds for it, if he is so furious at the word," Porfiry laughed. "Oh, you sharp lawyer! . . . Damn you all!" snapped Razumikhin, and suddenly bursting out laughing himself, he went up to Porfiry with a more cheerful face as though nothing had happened. "That'll do! We are all fools. Now, to business. This is my friend Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov; firstly, he has heard of you and wants to meet you, and secondly, he has a little matter to settle with you. Bah! Zametov, what brought you here? Have you met before? Have you known each other long?" "What does this mean?" thought Raskolnikov uneasily. Zametov seemed taken aback, but not very much so. "It was at your rooms we met yesterday," he said easily. "Then I've been spared the trouble. All last week he was begging me to introduce him to you. Porfiry and you have sniffed each other out without me. Where is your tobacco?" Porfiry Petrovich was wearing a dressing-gown, very clean clothing, and trodden-down slippers. He was about thirty-five, short, stout, even corpulent, and clean shaven. He wore his hair cut short and had a large round head which was particularly prominent at the back. His soft, round, rather snub-nosed face was of a sickly yellowish color, but it also had a vigorous and rather ironical expression. It would have been good-natured, except for a look in the eyes, which shone with a watery, sentimental light under almost white, blinking eyelashes. The expression of those eyes was strangely out of keeping with his somewhat womanish figure, and gave it something far more serious than could be guessed at first sight. As soon as Porfiry Petrovich heard that his visitor had a little matter to settle with him, he begged him to sit down on the sofa and sat down himself on the other end, waiting for him to explain his business, with that careful and over-serious attention which is at once oppressive and embarrassing, especially to a stranger, and especially if what you are discussing is in your opinion of far too little importance for such exceptional solemnity. But in brief and coherent phrases Raskolnikov explained his business clearly and exactly, and was so satisfied with himself that he even succeeded in taking a good look at Porfiry. Porfiry Petrovich did not once take his eyes off him. Razumikhin, sitting opposite at the same table, listened warmly and impatiently, looking from one to the other every moment with rather excessive interest. "Fool," Raskolnikov swore to himself. "You have to give information to the police," Porfiry replied, with a most businesslike air, "that having learnt of this incident, that is of the murder, you beg to inform the lawyer in charge of the case that such and such things belong to you, and that you wish to redeem them . . . or . . . but they will write to you." "That just the point, that at the moment," Raskolnikov tried his best to pretend to be embarrassed, "I don't quite have the funds . . . and even this tiny sum is beyond me . . . For the moment, you see, I only wanted to declare that the things are mine, and that when I have money . . . " "That doesn't matter," answered Porfiry Petrovich, receiving his explanation of his financial position coldly, "but you can, if you prefer, write straight to me, to say, that having been informed of the matter, and claiming such and such as your property, you would like . . . " "On an ordinary sheet of paper?" Raskolnikov interrupted eagerly, again interested in the financial side of the question. "Oh, the most ordinary," and suddenly Porfiry Petrovich looked with obvious irony at him, screwing up his eyes as if he were winking at him. But perhaps it was Raskolnikov imagination, since it all lasted for just a moment. There was certainly something of the sort, Raskolnikov could have sworn he winked at him, God knows why. "He knows," flashed through his mind like lightning. "Sorry for troubling you about something so unimportant," he went on, a little confused, "the things are only worth five rubles, but I prize them because of the people who gave them to me, and I have to say that I was alarmed when I heard . . . " "That why you were so struck when I mentioned to Zossimov that Porfiry was asking about anyone who had pledges!" Razumikhin put in with obvious intention. This was really unbearable. Raskolnikov could not help glancing at him with a flash of vindictive anger in his black eyes, but immediately reverted to his previous demeanor. "You seem to be laughing at me, my friend?" he said to him, with convincing mock irritability. "I probably do seem to you to be absurdly anxious about such trash; but you shouldn't think I'm selfish or grasping: these two things are anything but trash as far as I'm concerned. I told you just now that the silver watch, though it not worth a kopeck, is the only thing left us of my father . You may laugh at me, but my mother is here," he turned suddenly to Porfiry, "and if she knew," he turned again hurriedly to Razumikhin, carefully making his voice tremble, "that the watch was lost, she would be in despair! You know what women are like!" "Not a bit of it! I didn't mean that at all! Exactly the opposite!" shouted Razumikhin distressed. "Was it right? Was it natural? Did I overdo it?" Raskolnikov asked himself in a tremor. "Why did I say that about women?" "Oh, your mother is with you?" Porfiry Petrovich inquired. "Yes." "When did she come?" "Last night." Porfiry paused as though reflecting. "Your things would not in any case be lost," he went on calmly and coldly. "I have been expecting you here for some time." And as though that was a matter of no importance, he carefully offered the ash-tray to Razumikhin, who was ruthlessly scattering cigarette ash over the carpet. Raskolnikov shuddered, but Porfiry did not seem to be looking at him, and was still concerned with Razumikhin cigarette. "What? Expecting him? Why, did you know that he had pledges there?" cried Razumikhin. Porfiry Petrovich addressed himself to Raskolnikov. "Your things, the ring and the watch, were wrapped up together, and on the paper your name was legibly written in pencil, together with the date on which you left them with her . . . " "How observant you are!" Raskolnikov smiled awkwardly, doing his very utmost to look him straight in the face, but he failed, and suddenly added: "I say that because I suppose there were a quite a few pledges . . . that it must be difficult to remember them all . . . But you remember them all so clearly, and . . . and . . . " "Stupid! Feeble!" he thought. "Why did I add that?" "But we know all who had pledges, and you are the only one who hasn't come forward," Porfiry answered with hardly perceptible irony. "I haven't been very well." "I heard that too. I heard, in fact, that you were in great distress about something. You look pale still." "I am not pale at all . . . No, I am well again," Raskolnikov snapped out rudely and angrily, completely changing his tone. His anger was mounting, he could not repress it. "And in this angry mood I'll give myself away," flashed through his mind again. "Why are they torturing me?" "Not very well!" Razumikhin caught him up. "What next! He was unconscious and delirious all yesterday. Would you believe, Porfiry, as soon as our backs were turned, he got dressed, though he could hardly stand, and gave us the slip and went off on a spree somewhere till midnight, delirious all the time! Would you believe it! Extraordinary!" "Delirious? Really?" Porfiry shook his head in a womanish way. "Nonsense! Don't you believe it! But you don't believe it anyway," Raskolnikov let slip in his anger. But Porfiry Petrovich did not seem to catch those strange words. "But how could you have gone out if you hadn't been delirious?" Razumikhin got hot suddenly. "What did you go out for? What was the point? And why behind our backs? Were you thinking clearly when you did it? Now that all the danger is over I can talk about it openly." "I was totally fed up with them yesterday." Raskolnikov addressed Porfiry suddenly with a smile of insolent defiance, "I ran away from them to take lodgings where they wouldn't find me, and took a lot of money with me. Mr. Zametov there saw it. Mr. Zametov, was I in my right mind or was I delirious yesterday? Settle our dispute." He could have strangled Zametov at that moment, so hateful were his expression and his silence to him. "In my opinion you talked sensibly and even skillfully, but you were extremely irritable," Zametov pronounced dryly. "And Nikodim Fomich was telling me today," put in Porfiry Petrovich, "that he met you very late last night in the apartment of a man who had been run over." "And there," said Razumikhin, "weren't you mad then? You gave your last penny to the widow for the funeral. If you wanted to help, give fifteen or twenty even, but keep three rubles for yourself at least, but he flung away all twenty-five at once!" "Maybe I found some money somewhere and you know nothing about it? So that why I was liberal yesterday . . . Mr. Zametov knows I found something! Excuse us, please, for disturbing you for half an hour with such unimportant matters," he said turning to Porfiry Petrovich, with trembling lips. "We are boring you, aren't we?" "Oh no, quite the contrary, quite the contrary! If only you knew how you interest me! It interesting to look on and listen . . . and I am really glad you have come forward at last." "But could you give us some tea! My throat dry," cried Razumikhin. "Great idea! Perhaps we will all keep you company. Wouldn't you like . . . something more essential before tea?" "Oh, stop it!" Porfiry Petrovich went out to order tea. Raskolnikov thoughts were in a whirl. He was absolutely fed up. "The worst of it is they don't try to hide it; they don't even stand on ceremony! And how if you didn't know me at all, did you come to talk to Nikodim Fomich about me? So they didn't care to hide that they are tracking me like a pack of dogs. They simply spit in my face." He was shaking with rage. "Come on, strike me openly, don't play with me like a cat with a mouse. It hardly fair, Porfiry Petrovich, but perhaps I won't allow it! I'll get up and throw the whole truth in your ugly faces, and you'll see how much I hate you." He could hardly breathe. "And what if it just my imagination? What if I'm making a mistake, getting angry through inexperience and failing to keep up my wretched part? Perhaps it all unintentional. All their phrases are the usual ones, but there something about them . . . Whatever you say, there something. Why did he say it so bluntly ?ÄòWith her'? Why did Zametov add that I was talking ?Äòskillfully'? Why are they speaking in that tone? Yes, the tone . . . Razumikhin is sitting here, why doesn't he see anything? That innocent blockhead never sees anything! Feverish again! Did Porfiry wink at me just now? Of course it nonsense! What could he wink for? Are they trying to upset my nerves or are they teasing me? Either it my imagination or they know! Even Zametov is rude . . . Is Zametov rude? Zametov has changed his mind. I predicted he'd change his mind! He at home here; it my first visit. Porfiry doesn't treat him like a visitor: he sits with his back to him. They're as thick as thieves over me, there no doubt about it! No doubt they were talking about me before we came. Do they know about the apartment? If only they'd hurry up! When I said that I ran away to take an apartment he let it pass . . . I put that in cleverly about an apartment, it may come in useful later . . . Delirious . . . ha-ha-ha! He knows all about last night! He didn't know about my mother arrival! The hag had written the date on in pencil! You're wrong, you won't catch me! There are no facts . . . it all supposition! You produce facts! Even the apartment isn't a fact, it a delirium. I know what to say to them . . . Do they know about the apartment? I won't go without finding out. What did I come for? But maybe the fact that I'm angry now is a fact! I'm an idiot for getting so irritable! Perhaps that right; to play the invalid . . . He feeling for a way in. He'll try to catch me out. Why did I come?" All this flashed like lightning through his mind. Porfiry Petrovich returned quickly. He suddenly became more jovial. "Your party yesterday, my friend, has left my head rather . . . And I am completely out of shape," he began in quite a different tone, laughing to Razumikhin. "Was it interesting? I left you yesterday at the most interesting point. Who got the best of it?" "Oh, no-one, of course. They got on to everlasting questions, floated off into space." "Rodia, just imagine what we got on to yesterday. Whether there is such a thing as crime. I told you that we talked our heads off." "What strange about that? It an everyday social question," Raskolnikov answered casually. "The question wasn't put quite like that," observed Porfiry. "Not quite, that true," Razumikhin agreed at once, getting warm and hurried as usual. "Listen, Rodion, and tell us your opinion, I want to hear it. I was fighting tooth and nail with them and wanted you to help me. I told them you were coming . . . It began with the socialist doctrine. You know their doctrine; crime is a protest against the abnormality of the social organization30 and nothing more, nothing; no other causes admitted! . . . " "You are wrong there," cried Porfiry Petrovich; he was noticeably excited and kept laughing as he looked at Razumikhin, which made him more excited than ever. "Nothing is admitted," Razumikhin interrupted with heat. "I'm not wrong. I'll show you their pamphlets. Everything with them is ?Äòthe influence of the environment,' and nothing else. Their favorite phrase! From which it follows that, if society is normally organized, crime will instantly cease to exist, since there will be nothing to protest against and all men will become righteous in an instant. Human nature is not taken into account, it is excluded, it not supposed to exist! They don't recognize that humanity has developed by a living historical process and will eventually become normal; they believe that a social system that has come out of some mathematical brain is going to organize all of humanity at once and make it just and sinless in an instant, quicker than any living process! That why they instinctively dislike history, ?Äònothing but ugliness and stupidity in it,' and they explain it all as stupidity! That why they dislike the living process of life; they don't want a living soul! The living soul demands life, the soul won't obey the rules of mechanics, the soul is an object of suspicion, the soul is backward! But what they want, though it smells of death and can be made of rubber, is at least not alive, has no will, is servile and won't revolt! And it comes in the end to their reducing everything to the building of walls and the planning of rooms and passages in a commune! The commune is ready, but human nature isn't ready for the commune it needs life, it hasn't completed its vital process, it too soon for the graveyard! You can't skip over nature by logic. Logic presupposes three possibilities, but there are millions! Cut away a million, and reduce it all to a question of comfort! That the easiest solution to the problem! It seductively clear and you mustn't think about it. That the great thing, you mustn't think! The whole secret of life in two pages of print!" "Now he is off, beating the drum! Catch hold of him, do!" laughed Porfiry. "Can you imagine," he turned to Raskolnikov, "six people holding forth like that last night, in one room, with punch as a preliminary! No, my friend, you are wrong, environment accounts for a great deal in crime, I can tell you." "Oh, I know it does, but just tell me: a man of forty rapes a child of ten; was it environment that drove him to it?" "Well, strictly speaking, it did," Porfiry observed with noteworthy gravity; "a crime of that nature may be very well ascribed to the influence of the environment." Razumikhin was almost in a frenzy. "Oh, if you like," he roared. "I'll prove to you that your white eyelashes may very well be ascribed to the Church of Ivan the Great being two hundred and fifty feet high, and I will prove it clearly, exactly, progressively, and even with a Liberal tendency! I will! Do you want to bet on it?" "Done! Let hear, please, how he will prove it!" "He is always humbugging, confound him," cried Razumikhin, jumping up and gesticulating. "What the use of talking to you! He does all that on purpose; you don't know him, Rodion! He took their side yesterday, simply to make fools of them. And the things he said yesterday! And they were delighted! He can keep it up for a fortnight together. Last year he persuaded us that he was going into a monastery: he stuck to it for two months. Not long ago he took it into his head to declare he was going to get married, that he had everything ready for the wedding. He ordered new clothes indeed. We all began to congratulate him. There was no bride, nothing, all pure fantasy!" "Ah, you are wrong! I got the clothes before. It was the new clothes in fact that made me think of taking you in." "Are you such a good liar?" Raskolnikov asked carelessly. "You wouldn't have supposed it? Just wait, I'll take you in, too. Ha-ha-ha! No, I'll tell you the truth. All these questions about crime, environment, children, remind me of an article of yours which interested me at the time. ?ÄòOn Crime' . . . or something of the sort, I forget the title, I read it with pleasure two months ago in the Periodical Review." "My article? In the Periodical Review?" Raskolnikov asked in astonishment. "I certainly did write an article about a book six months ago when I left the university, but I sent it to the Weekly Review." "But it came out in the Periodical." "And the Weekly Review ceased to exist, so that why it wasn't printed at the time." "That true; but when it ceased to exist, the Weekly Review was amalgamated with the Periodical, and so your article appeared two months ago in the latter. Didn't you know?" Raskolnikov had not known. "Why, you might get some money out of them for the article! What a strange person you are! You lead such a solitary life that you know nothing of matters that concern you directly. It a fact, I assure you." "Bravo, Rodia! I knew nothing about it either!" cried Razumikhin. "I'll run today to the reading-room and ask for the number. Two months ago? What was the date? It doesn't matter though, I'll find it. Think of not telling us!" "How did you find out that the article was mine? It only signed with an initial." "I only found out by chance, the other day. Through the editor; I know him . . . I was very interested." "It analyzed, if I remember, the psychology of a criminal before and after the crime." "Yes, and you maintained that the perpetration of a crime is always accompanied by illness. Very, very original, but . . . it was not that part of your article that interested me so much, but an idea at the end of the article which unfortunately you just suggested without working it out clearly. There is, if you remember, a suggestion that there are certain persons who can . . . that is, not precisely are able to, but have a perfect right to commit breaches of morality and crimes, and that the law is not for them." Raskolnikov smiled at the exaggerated and intentional distortion of his idea. "What? What do you mean? A right to crime? But not because of the influence of their environment?" Razumikhin inquired with some alarm even. "No, not exactly because of it," answered Porfiry. "In his article all men are divided into ?Äòordinary' and ?Äòextraordinary.'31 Ordinary men have to live in submission, have no right to transgress the law, because, don't you see, they are ordinary. But extraordinary men have a right to commit any crime and to transgress the law in any way, just because they are extraordinary. That was your idea, if I am not mistaken?" "What do you mean? That can't be right?" Razumikhin muttered in bewilderment. Raskolnikov smiled again. He saw the point at once, and knew where they wanted to drive him. He decided to take up the challenge. "That wasn't quite what I said," he began simply and modestly. "But I admit that you have stated it almost correctly; perhaps even perfectly." (It almost gave him pleasure to admit this.) "The only difference is that I don't contend that extraordinary people are always bound to commit breaches of morals, as you call it. In fact, I doubt whether such an argument could be published. I simply hinted that an ?Äòextraordinary' man has the right . . . that is not an official right, but an inner right to decide in his own conscience to overstep . . . certain obstacles, and only in case it is essential for the practical fulfillment of his idea (sometimes, perhaps, of benefit to the whole of humanity). You say that my article isn't definite; I am ready to make it as clear as I can. Perhaps I am right in thinking you want me to; very well. I maintain that if the discoveries of Kepler and Newton could not have been made known except by sacrificing the lives of one, a dozen, a hundred, or more people, Newton would have had the right, would in fact have been duty bound . . . to eliminate a dozen or a hundred men for the sake of making his discoveries known to the whole of humanity. But it does not follow from that that Newton had a right to murder people right and left and to steal every day in the market. Then, I remember, I maintain in my article that all . . . well, legislators and leaders, such as Lycurgus, Solon,32 Muhammed, Napoleon, and so on, were all without exception criminals, from the very fact that, making a new law, they transgressed the ancient one, handed down from their ancestors and held sacred by the people, and they did not stop short at bloodshed either, if that bloodshed often of innocent persons fighting bravely in defense of ancient law were of use to their cause. It remarkable, in fact, that the majority, in fact, of these benefactors and leaders of humanity were guilty of terrible carnage. In short, I maintain that all great people or even people who are slightly uncommon, that is to say capable of producing some new idea, must by nature be criminals more or less, of course. Otherwise it hard for them to get out of the common rut; and to remain in the common rut is what they can't submit to, from their very nature again, and to my mind they ought not, in fact, to submit to it. You see that there is nothing particularly new in all that. The same thing has been printed and read a thousand times before. As for my division of people into ordinary and extraordinary, I acknowledge that it somewhat arbitrary, but I don't insist upon exact numbers. I only believe in my leading idea that men are in general divided by a law of nature into two categories, inferior (ordinary), that is, so to say, material that serves only to reproduce its kind, and men who have the gift or the talent to produce something new. There are, of course, innumerable sub-divisions, but the distinguishing features of both categories are fairly well marked. The first category, generally speaking, contains men who are conservative in temperament and law-abiding; they live under control and love to be controlled. To my thinking it is their duty to be controlled, because that their vocation, and there is nothing humiliating in it for them. The second category transgresses the law; they are destroyers or disposed to destruction according to their capacities. The crimes of these men are of course relative and varied; for the most part they seek in very varied ways the destruction of the present for the sake of the better. But if such people are forced for the sake of their ideas to step over a corpse or wade through blood they can, I maintain, find within themselves, in their conscience, a justification for wading through blood which, you should note, depends on the idea and its dimensions. It only in that sense I speak of their right to crime in my article (you remember it began with the legal question). There no need for such anxiety, however; the masses will scarcely ever admit this right, they punish them or hang them (more or less), and in doing so quite justly fulfill their conservative vocation. But the same masses set these criminals on a pedestal in the next generation and worship them (more or less). The first category is always the man of the present, the second the man of the future. The first preserve the world and people it, the second move the world and lead it to its goal. Each class has an equal right to exist. In fact, all have equal rights with me and I hope eternal war flourishes until the New Jerusalem, of course!" "Then you believe in the New Jerusalem, do you?" "I do," Raskolnikov answered firmly; as he said these words and during the whole tirade which preceded them he kept his eyes on one spot on the carpet. "And . . . and do you believe in God? Excuse my curiosity." "I do," repeated Raskolnikov, raising his eyes to Porfiry. "And . . . do you believe that Lazarus rose from the dead?" "I . . . I do. Why do you ask all this?" "You believe it literally?" "Literally." "You don't say so . . . I asked because I was curious. Excuse me. But let us go back to the question; they are not always executed. Some, on the contrary . . . " "Triumph in their lifetime? Oh, yes, some attain their ends in this life, and then . . . " "They begin executing other people?" "If it necessary; indeed, for the most part they do. Your remark is very witty." "Thank you. But tell me this: how do you distinguish those extraordinary people from the ordinary ones? Are there signs at their birth? I feel there ought to be more exactitude, more external definition. Excuse the natural anxiety of a practical law-abiding citizen, but couldn't they adopt a special uniform, for instance, couldn't they wear something, be branded in some way? For you know if confusion arises and a member of one category imagines that he belongs to the other, begins to ?Äòeliminate obstacles,' as you so happily expressed it, then . . . " "Oh, that very often happens! That remark is wittier than the other." "Thank you." "No reason to; but take note that the mistake can only arise in the first category, that is among the ordinary people (as I perhaps unfortunately called them). In spite of their predisposition to obedience very many of them, through a playfulness of nature, sometimes vouchsafed even to the cow, like to imagine themselves advanced people, ?Äòdestroyers,' and to push themselves into the ?Äònew movement, ' and quite sincerely at that. Meanwhile the really new people are very often unobserved by them, or even despised as reactionaries of groveling tendencies. But I don't think there is any considerable danger here, and you really needn't be uneasy; they never go very far. Of course, they might have a thrashing sometimes for letting their imagination run away with them and to teach them their place, but no more; in fact, even this isn't necessary as they chastise themselves, because they are very conscientious: some perform this service for one another and others chastise themselves with their own hands . . . They will impose various public acts of penitence upon themselves with a beautiful and edifying effect; in fact, you've nothing to be uneasy about . . . It a law of nature." "Well, you have certainly set my mind more at rest on that score; but there another thing worries me. Tell me, please, are there many people who have the right to kill others, these extraordinary people? I am ready to bow down to them, of course, but you must admit it alarming if there are a great many of them, eh?" "Oh, you needn't worry about that either," Raskolnikov went on in the same tone. "People with new ideas, people with the faintest capacity for saying something new, are extremely few in number, extraordinarily so in fact. One thing only is clear, that the appearance of all these grades and sub-divisions of men must follow with unfailing regularity some law of nature. That law, of course, is unknown at present, but I am convinced that it exists, and one day may become known. The vast mass of mankind is mere material, and only exists in order by some great effort, by some mysterious process, by some crossing of races and stocks, to bring into the world at last perhaps one man out of a thousand with a spark of independence. One in ten thousand perhaps I speak roughly, approximately is born with some independence, and with still greater independence one in a hundred thousand. The man of genius is one of millions, and the great geniuses, the crown of humanity, appear on earth perhaps one in many thousand millions. In fact I have not peeped into the retort in which all this takes place. But there certainly is and must be a definite law, it cannot be a matter of chance." "Why, are you both joking?" Razumikhin cried at last. "There you sit, making fun of one another. Are you serious, Rodia?" Raskolnikov raised his pale and almost mournful face and made no reply. And the unconcealed, persistent, nervous, and discourteous sarcasm of Porfiry seemed strange to Razumikhin beside that quiet and mournful face. "Well, my friend, if you're really serious . . . You're right, of course, in saying that it not new, that it like what we've read and heard a thousand times already; but what is really original in all this, and is exclusively your own, to my horror, is that you permit bloodshed in the name of conscience, and, excuse my saying so, with such fanaticism . . . That, I take it, is the point of your article. But that permission of bloodshed by conscience is to my mind . . . more terrible than the official, legal permission of bloodshed . . . " "You are quite right, it is more terrible," Porfiry agreed. "Yes, you must have exaggerated! There is some mistake, I shall read it. You can't think that! I shall read it." "All that is not in the article, there only a hint of it," said Raskolnikov. "Yes, yes." Porfiry couldn't sit still. "Your attitude to crime is pretty clear to me now, but . . . excuse me for my impertinence (I am really ashamed to be worrying you like this), you see, you've removed my anxiety as to the two grades getting mixed, but . . . there are various practical possibilities that make me uneasy! What if some man or youth imagines that he is a Lycurgus or Muhammed a future one of course and suppose he begins to remove all obstacles . . . He has some great enterprise before him and needs money for it . . . and tries to get it . . . do you see?" Zametov gave a sudden guffaw in his corner. Raskolnikov did not even raise his eyes to him. "I must admit," he went on calmly, "that such cases must certainly arise. The vain and foolish are particularly apt to fall into that snare; young people especially." "Yes, you see. Well then?" "What then?" Raskolnikov smiled in reply; "that not my fault. So it is and so it always will be. He said just now" (he nodded at Razumikhin) "that I permit bloodshed. Society is too well protected by prisons, banishment, criminal investigators, penal servitude. There no need to be uneasy. You have but to catch the thief." "And what if we do catch him?" "Then he gets what he deserves." "You are certainly logical. But what of his conscience?" "Why do you care about that?" "Simply from humanity." "If he has a conscience he will suffer for his mistake. That will be his punishment as well as the prison." "But the real geniuses," asked Razumikhin frowning, "those who have the right to murder? Oughtn't they to suffer at all even for the blood they've shed?" "Why the word ?Äòought'? It not a matter of permission or prohibition. He will suffer if he is sorry for his victim. Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth," he added dreamily, not in the tone of the conversation. He raised his eyes, looked earnestly at them all, smiled, and took his cap. He was too quiet by comparison with his manner at his entrance, and he felt this. Everyone got up. "Well, you may abuse me, be angry with me if you like," Porfiry Petrovich began again, "but I can't resist. Allow me one little question (I know I am troubling you). There is just one little notion I want to express, simply that I may not forget it." "Very good, tell me your little notion," Raskolnikov stood waiting, pale and grave before him. "Well, you see . . . I really don't know how to express it properly . . . It a playful, psychological idea . . . When you were writing your article, surely you couldn't have helped, he-he, fancying yourself . . . just a little, an ?Äòextraordinary' man, uttering a new word in your sense . . . That so, isn't it?" "Quite possibly," Raskolnikov answered contemptuously. Razumikhin made a movement. "And, if so, could you bring yourself in case of worldly difficulties and hardship or for some service to humanity to overstep obstacles? . . . For instance, to rob and murder?" And again he winked with his left eye, and laughed noiselessly just as before. "If I did I certainly wouldn't tell you," Raskolnikov answered with defiant and proud contempt. "No, I was only interested because of your article, from a literary point of view . . . " "God, how obvious and insolent that is," Raskolnikov thought with repulsion. "Allow me to observe," he answered dryly, "that I don't consider myself a Muhammed or a Napoleon, nor any person of that kind, and not being one of them I cannot tell you how I would act." "Oh, come, don't we all consider ourselves Napoleons now in Russia?" Porfiry Petrovich said with alarming familiarity. Something peculiar betrayed itself in the very intonation of his voice. "Perhaps it was one of these future Napoleons who did for Aliona Ivanovna last week?" Zametov blurted out from the corner. Raskolnikov did not speak, but looked firmly and intently at Porfiry. Razumikhin was scowling gloomily. He seemed before this to be noticing something. He looked angrily around. There was a minute of gloomy silence. Raskolnikov turned to go. "Are you going already?" Porfiry said amiably, holding out his hand with excessive politeness. "Very, very pleased to meet you. As for your request, have no uneasiness, write just as I told you, or, better still, come to me there yourself in a day or two . . . tomorrow, indeed. I shall be there at eleven o'clock for certain. We'll arrange it all; we'll have a talk. As one of the last to be there, you might perhaps be able to tell us something," he added with a most good-natured expression. "You want to cross-examine me officially in due form?" Raskolnikov asked sharply. "Why? For the moment, that unnecessary. You misunderstand me. I lose no opportunity, you see, and . . . I've talked to everyone who had pledges . . . I obtained evidence from some of them, and you are the last ... Yes, by the way," he cried, seemingly suddenly delighted, "I just remember, what was I thinking of?" he turned to Razumikhin, "you were talking my ears off about that Nikolai . . . of course, I know, I know very well," he turned to Raskolnikov, "that the man is innocent, but what can you do? We had to trouble Dmitri too . . . This is the point, this is all I wanted to ask: when you went up the stairs it was past seven, wasn't it?" "Yes," answered Raskolnikov, with an unpleasant sensation at the very moment he spoke that he need not have said it. "Then when you went upstairs between seven and eight, didn't you see in an apartment that stood open on a second storey, do you remember, two workmen or at least one of them? They were painting there, didn't you notice them? It very, very important for them." "Painters? No, I didn't see them," Raskolnikov answered slowly, as though ransacking his memory, while at the same instant he was racking every nerve, almost swooning with anxiety to guess as quickly as possible where the trap lay and not to overlook anything. "No, I didn't see them, and I don't think I noticed an apartment like that open . . . But on the fourth floor" (he had mastered the trap now and was triumphant) "I remember now that someone was moving out of the apartment opposite Aliona Ivanovna . . . I remember . . . I remember it clearly. Some porters were carrying out a sofa and they squeezed me against the wall. But painters . . . no, I don't remember that there were any painters, and I don't think that there was an apartment open anywhere, no, there wasn't." "What do you mean?" Razumikhin shouted suddenly, as though he had reflected and realized. "Why, it was on the day of the murder the painters were at work, and he was there three days before? What are you asking?" "Goodness! I've got it all mixed up!" Porfiry slapped himself on the forehead. "Damn this business, it doing my head in!" he said to Raskolnikov, somewhat apologetically. "It would be such a great thing for us to find out whether anyone had seen them between seven and eight at the apartment, so I fancied you could perhaps have told us something . . . I got it all muddled." "Then you should be more careful," Razumikhin observed grimly. The last words were uttered in the passage. Porfiry Petrovich saw them to the door with excessive politeness. They went out into the street gloomy and sullen, and for some steps they did not say a word. Raskolnikov drew a deep breath. CHAPTER SIX "I DON'T BELIEVE IT, I can't believe it!" repeated Razumikhin, trying in perplexity to refute Raskolnikov arguments. They were by now approaching Bakaleyev lodgings, where Pulcheria Alexandrovna and Dunia had been expecting them a long while. Razumikhin kept stopping on the way in the heat of discussion, confused and excited by the very fact that they were for the first time speaking openly about it. "Don't believe it, then!" answered Raskolnikov, with a cold, careless smile. "You were noticing nothing as usual, but I was weighing every word." "You are suspicious. That is why you weighed their words . . . hm . . . certainly, I agree, Porfiry tone was rather strange, and still more that wretch Zametov! . . . You are right, there was something about him but why? Why?" "He has changed his mind since last night." "Quite the contrary! If they had that brainless idea, they would do their best to hide it, and conceal their cards, in order to catch you afterwards . . . But it was all impudent and careless." "If they had had facts I mean, real facts or at least grounds for suspicion, then they would certainly have tried to hide their game, in the hope of getting more (they would have made a search long ago anyway). But they haven't got any facts, not a single one. It all a mirage all ambiguous. Just a floating idea. So they try to throw me with impudence. And perhaps he was irritated at having no facts, and blurted it out in vexation or perhaps he has a plan . . . he seems like an intelligent man. Perhaps he wanted to frighten me by pretending to know. They have a psychology of their own, my friend. But it so revolting to explain it all; let stop." "And it insulting, insulting! I understand you. But . . . since we have spoken openly now (and it is an excellent thing that we have at last, I'm glad) I will now admit frankly that I noticed it in them long ago, this idea. Just a hint, of course an insinuation but why even an insinuation? How dare they? What grounds do they have? If only you knew how furious I've been. Think about it! Just because a poor student, unhinged by poverty and hypochondria, on the eve of a severe delirious illness (note that), suspicious, vain, proud, who has not seen a soul to speak to for six months, in rags and in boots without soles, has to face some wretched policemen and put up with their insolence; and the unexpected debt thrust under his nose, the I.O.U. presented by Chebarov, the new paint, thirty degrees and a stifling atmosphere, a crowd of people, a conversation about the murder of a person whose apartment he had been at just before, and all that on an empty stomach he might well have a fainting fit! And that, that is what they base it all on! Damn them! I understand how annoying it is, but if I were you, Rodia, I would laugh at them, or better still, spit in their ugly faces, and spit a dozen times in all directions. I'd hit out in all directions, neatly too, and put an end to it. Damn them! Don't be downhearted. How shameful it all is!" "He really has put it well, though," Raskolnikov thought. "Damn them? But the cross-examination again, tomorrow?" he said with bitterness. "Must I really start explaining things to them? I feel annoyed as it is that I started speaking to Zametov yesterday in the restaurant . . . " "Damn it! I will go myself to Porfiry. I will squeeze it out of him, as one of the family: he must let me know the ins and outs of it all! And as for Zametov . . . " "At last he sees through him!" thought Raskolnikov. "Stop!" cried Razumikhin, seizing him by the shoulder again. "Stop! You were wrong. I have thought it out. You're wrong! How was that a trap? You say that the question about the workmen was a trap. But if you had done that, could you have said you had seen them painting the apartment . . . and the workmen? On the contrary, you would have seen nothing, even if you had seen it. Who would produce evidence against himself?" "If I had done that thing, I should certainly have said that I had seen the workmen and the apartment." Raskolnikov answered, with reluctance and obvious disgust. "But why speak against yourself?" "Because only peasants, or the most inexperienced novices deny everything flatly at examinations. If a man is undeveloped and inexperienced, he will certainly try to admit all the external facts that can't be avoided, but seek other explanations of them, introduce some special, unexpected turn that will lend them another meaning and put them in another light. Porfiry might well reckon that I should be sure to answer so, and say I had seen them to give an air of truth, and then make some explanation." "But he would have told you at once, that the workmen could not have been there two days before, and that therefore you must have been there on the day of the murder at eight o'clock. And so he would have caught you over a detail." "Yes, that is what he was reckoning on, that I should not have time to reflect, and should be in a hurry to make the most likely answer, and so would forget that the workmen could not have been there two days before." "But how could you forget it?" "Nothing easier. It is in just such stupid things that clever people are most easily caught. The more cunning a man is, the less he suspects that he will be caught out in a simple trap. The more cunning a man is, the simpler the trap he must be caught in. Porfiry is not as much of a fool as you think . . . " "He is a knave then, if that is so!" Raskolnikov could not help laughing. But at the very moment, he was struck by the strangeness of his own frankness, and the eagerness with which he had made this explanation, though he had kept up all the preceding conversation with gloomy repulsion, obviously with a motive, from necessity. "I am getting a relish for certain aspects!" he thought to himself. But almost at the same instant, he became suddenly uneasy, as though an unexpected and alarming idea had occurred to him. His uneasiness kept on increasing. They had just reached the entrance to Bakaleyev . "Go in alone!" said Raskolnikov suddenly. "I'll be back soon." "Where are you going? We've just got here." "I can't help it . . . I will come back in half an hour. Tell them." "Say what you like, I will come with you." "So you want to torture me too!" he screamed, with such bitter irritation, such despair in his eyes that Razumikhin hands dropped. He stood for some time on the steps, looking gloomily at Raskolnikov striding rapidly away in the direction of his lodging. At last, gritting his teeth and clenching his fist, he swore he would squeeze Porfiry like a lemon that very day, and went up the stairs to reassure Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was by now alarmed at their long absence. When Raskolnikov got home, his hair was soaked with sweat and he was breathing heavily. He went rapidly up the stairs, walked into his unlocked room and at once fastened the latch. Then in senseless terror he rushed to the corner, to that hole under the paper where he had put the thing; put his hand in, and for some minutes felt carefully in the hole, in every crack and fold of the paper. Finding nothing, he got up and drew a deep breath. As he was reaching the steps of Bakaleyev , he suddenly thought that something, a chain, a stud or even a bit of paper in which they had been wrapped with the old woman handwriting on it, might somehow have slipped out and been lost in some crack, and then might suddenly turn up as unexpected, conclusive evidence against him. He stood as if were lost in thought, and a strange, humiliated, half senseless smile strayed on his lips. He took his cap at last and went quietly out of the room. His ideas were all tangled. He went dreamily through the gateway. "Here he is," shouted a loud voice. He raised his head. The porter was standing at the door of his little room and was pointing him out to a short man who looked like an artisan, wearing a long coat and a waistcoat, and looking at a distance remarkably like a woman. He stooped, and his head in a greasy cap hung forward. From his wrinkled flabby face he looked over fifty; his little eyes were lost in fat and they looked out grimly, sternly and discontentedly. "What is it?" Raskolnikov asked, going up to the porter. The man stole a look at him from under his brows and he looked at him attentively, deliberately; then he turned slowly and went out of the gate into the street without saying a word. "What is it?" cried Raskolnikov. "He was asking whether a student lived here, mentioned your name and who you lodged with. I saw you coming and pointed you out and he went away. Seems strange to me." The porter also seemed fairly puzzled, but not excessively so, and after wondering about it for a moment he turned and went back to his room. Raskolnikov ran after the stranger, and at once caught sight of him walking along the other side of the street with the same even, deliberate step, his eyes fixed on the ground, as if he were meditating. He soon overtook him, but kept walking behind him for some time. At last, moving level with him, he looked at his face. The man noticed him at once, looked at him quickly, but dropped his eyes again; and so they walked for a minute side by side without uttering a word. "You were asking for me . . . at the porter ?" Raskolnikov said at last, but in a strangely quiet voice. The man didn't answer; he didn't even look at him. Again they were both silent. "Why did you . . . come and ask for me . . . and say nothing . . . Why?" Raskolnikov voice broke and he seemed unable to articulate the words clearly. The man raised his eyes this time and turned a gloomy sinister look at Raskolnikov. "Murderer!" he said suddenly in a quiet but clear and distinct voice. Raskolnikov went on walking beside him. His legs felt suddenly weak, a cold shiver ran down his spine, and his heart seemed to stand still for a moment, then suddenly began throbbing as though it were set free. So they walked for about a hundred paces, side by side in silence. The man did not look at him. "What do you mean . . . what is . . . Who a murderer?" muttered Raskolnikov hardly audibly. "You are a murderer," the man answered still more articulately and emphatically, with a smile of triumphant hatred, and again he looked straight into Raskolnikov pale face and stricken eyes. They had just reached the crossroads. The man turned to the left without looking behind him. Raskolnikov remained standing, gazing after him. He saw him turn round fifty paces away and look back at him still standing there. Raskolnikov could not see clearly, but he imagined that he was again smiling the same smile of cold hatred and triumph. With slow faltering steps, with shaking knees, Raskolnikov made his way back to his little garret, feeling chilled all over. He took off his cap and put it on the table, and for ten minutes he stood without moving. Then he sank exhausted on the sofa and with a weak moan of pain he stretched himself out on it. So he lay for half an hour. He thought of nothing. Some thoughts or fragments of thoughts, some images without order or coherence floated before his mind faces of people he had seen in his childhood or met somewhere once, whom he would never have recalled, the belfry of the church at V., the billiard table in a restaurant and some officers playing billiards, the smell of cigars in some underground tobacco store, a tavern room, a back staircase quite dark, all sloppy with dirty water and strewn with egg shells, and the Sunday bells floating in from somewhere . . . The images followed one another, whirling like a hurricane. Some of them he liked and tried to clutch at, but they faded and all the while there was an oppressive feeling inside him, but it was not overwhelming, sometimes it was even pleasant . . . The slight shivering still persisted, but that too was an almost pleasant sensation. He heard the hurried footsteps of Razumikhin; he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Razumikhin opened the door and stood for some time in the doorway as though hesitating, then he stepped softly into the room and went cautiously to the sofa. Raskolnikov heard Nastasia whisper: "Don't disturb him! Let him sleep. He can have his dinner later." "Fine," answered Razumikhin. Both withdrew carefully and closed the door. Another half hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes, turned on his back again, clasping his hands behind his head. "Who is he? Who is that man who sprang out of the earth? Where was he, what did he see? He saw it all, that clear. Where was he then? And where did he see it from? Why has he only now sprung out of the earth? And how could he see it? Is it possible? Hm . . . " continued Raskolnikov, turning cold and shivering, "and the jewel case Nikolai found behind the door was that possible? A clue? You miss an infinitesimal line and you can build it into a pyramid of evidence! A fly flew by and saw it! Is it possible?" He felt with sudden loathing how weak, how physically weak he had become. "I ought to have known it," he thought with a bitter smile. "And how dared I, knowing myself, knowing how I would be, take up an axe and shed blood! I ought to have known beforehand . . . Ah, but I did know!" he whispered in despair. At times he came to a standstill at some thought. "No, those men are not made like that. The real Master to whom all is permitted storms Toulon, makes a massacre in Paris, forgets an army in Egypt, wastes half a million men in the Moscow expedition and gets off with a jest at Vilna. And altars are set up to him after his death, and so everything is permitted. No, such people, it seems, are made not of flesh but of bronze!" One sudden irrelevant idea almost made him laugh. Napoleon, the pyramids, Waterloo, and a wretched skinny old woman, a pawnbroker with a red trunk under her bed it a nice hash for Porfiry Petrovich to digest! How can they digest it! It too inartistic. "A Napoleon creeping under an old woman bed! Ugh, how loathsome!" At moments he felt he was raving. He sank into a state of feverish excitement. "The old woman doesn't matter," he thought, hotly and incoherently. "The old woman was a mistake perhaps, but she isn't what matters! The old woman was just an illness . . . I was in a hurry to overstep . . . I didn't kill a human being, but a principle! I killed the principle, but I didn't overstep, I stopped on this side . . . I was only capable of killing. And it seems I wasn't even capable of that ... Principle? Why was that fool Razumikhin abusing the socialists? They are industrious, commercial people; ?Äòuniversal happiness' is their case. No, life is only given to me once and I shall never have it again; I don't want to wait for ?Äòuniversal happiness.' I want to live myself, or else better not live at all. I simply couldn't pass by my mother starving, keeping my trouble in my pocket while I waited for ?Äòuniversal happiness.' I am putting my little brick into universal happiness and so my heart is at peace. Ha-ha! Why have you let me slip? I only live once, I too want . . . God, esthetically I'm a louse and nothing else," he added suddenly, laughing like a madman. "Yes, I'm definitely a louse," he went on, clutching at the idea, gloating over it and playing with it with vindictive pleasure. "In the first place, because I can reason that I am one, and secondly, because for a month past I have been troubling benevolent Providence, calling it to witness that I didn't do it for my own fleshly lusts, but with a grand and noble object ha-ha! Thirdly, because I aimed to carry it out as justly as possible, weighing, measuring and calculating. Of all the lice I picked out the most useless one and proposed to take from her only as much as I needed for the first step, no more, no less (so the rest would have gone to a monastery, according to her will, ha-ha!). And the thing which really shows that I am a louse," he added, grinding his teeth, "is that I am perhaps viler and more loathsome than the louse I killed, and I felt beforehand that I would tell myself so after I killed her. Can anything be compared with the horror of that! The vulgarity! The abjectness! I understand the ?Äòprophet' with his saber, on his steed: Allah commands and ?Äòtrembling' creation must obey! The ?Äòprophet' is right, he is right when he sets a battery across the street and blows up the innocent and the guilty without explaining! It for you to obey, trembling creation, and not to have desires, that not for you! . . . I shall never, never forgive the old woman!" His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were parched, his eyes were fixed on the ceiling. "Mother, sister how I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate them, I feel a physical hatred for them, I can't bear to have them near me . . . I went up to my mother and kissed her, I remember . . . To embrace her and think if she only knew . . . shall I tell her then? That just what I might do . . . She must be the same as I am," he added, straining himself to think, as it were struggling with delirium. "Ah, how I hate the old woman now! I feel I would kill her again if she came to life! Poor Lizaveta! Why did she come in? . . . It strange though, why is it I scarcely ever think of her, as though I hadn't killed her! Lizaveta! Sonia! Poor gentle things, with gentle eyes ... Dear women! Why don't they weep? Why don't they moan? They give up everything . . . their eyes are soft and gentle . . . Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!" He lost consciousness; it seemed strange to him that he didn't remember how he got into the street. It was late in the evening. The twilight had fallen and the full moon was shining more and more brightly; but there was a peculiar breathlessness in the air. There were crowds of people in the street; workmen and business people were making their way home; other people had come out for a walk; there was a smell of mortar, dust and stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along, mournful and anxious; he was definitely aware of having come out with a purpose, of having to do something in a hurry, but what it was he had forgotten. Suddenly he stood still and saw a man standing on the other side of the street, beckoning to him. He crossed over, but at once the man turned and walked away with his head hanging, as though he had made no sign to him. "Hold on, did he really beckon?" Raskolnikov wondered, but he tried to overtake him. When he was within ten paces he recognized him and was frightened; it was the same man with stooping shoulders in the long coat. Raskolnikov followed him at a distance; his heart was beating; they went down a turning; the man still did not look round. "Does he know I am following him?" thought Raskolnikov. The man went into the gateway of a big house. Raskolnikov hastened to the gate and looked in to see whether he would look round and make a sign to him. In the courtyard the man did turn round and again seemed to beckon him. Raskolnikov at once followed him into the yard, but the man was gone. He must have gone up the first staircase. Raskolnikov rushed after him. He heard slow measured steps two flights above. The staircase seemed strangely familiar. He reached the window on the first floor; the moon shone through the panes with a melancholy and mysterious light; then he reached the second floor. Bah! This is the apartment where the painters were at work . . . but how was it he did not recognize it at once? The steps of the man above had died away. "So he must have stopped or hidden somewhere." He reached the third floor, should he go on? There was a stillness that was dreadful . . . But he went on. The sound of his own footsteps scared and frightened him. How dark it was! The man must be hiding in some corner here. Ah! the apartment was standing wide open, he hesitated and went in. It was very dark and empty in the passage, as though everything had been removed; he crept on tiptoe into the parlor which was flooded with moonlight. Everything there was as before, the chairs, the looking-glass, the yellow sofa and the pictures in the frames. A huge, round, copper-red moon looked in at the windows. "It the moon that makes it so still, weaving some mystery," thought Raskolnikov. He stood and waited, waited a long while, and the more silent the moonlight, the more violently his heart beat, until it grew painful. And still the same hush. Suddenly he heard a momentary sharp crack like the snapping of a splinter and all was still again. A fly flew up suddenly and struck the window pane with a plaintive buzz. At that moment he noticed in the corner between the window and the little cupboard something like a cloak hanging on the wall. "Why is that cloak there?" he thought, "it wasn't there before . . . " He went up to it quietly and felt that there was someone hiding behind it. He cautiously moved the cloak and saw, sitting on a chair in the corner, the old woman bent double so that he couldn't see her face; but it was she. He stood over her. "She is afraid," he thought. He stealthily took the axe from the noose and struck her one blow, then another on the skull. But strange to say she did not stir, as though she were made of wood. He was frightened, bent down nearer and tried to look at her; but she, too, bent her head lower. He bent right down to the ground and peeped up into her face from below he peeped and turned cold with horror: the old woman was sitting and laughing, shaking with noiseless laughter, doing her best to prevent him hearing it. Suddenly he imagined that the door from the bedroom was ajar and that there was laughter and whispering inside. He was overcome with frenzy and he began hitting the old woman on the head with all his strength, but at every blow of the axe the laughter and whispering from the bedroom grew louder and the old woman was actually shaking with amusement. He was rushing away, but the passage was full of people, the doors of the apartments stood open and on the landing, on the stairs and everywhere below there were people, rows of heads, all looking, but huddled together in silence and expectation. Something gripped his heart, his legs were rooted to the spot, they would not move . . . He tried to scream and woke up. He drew a deep breath but his dream seemed to persist strangely: his door was flung open and a man whom he had never seen stood in the doorway watching him intently. Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he instantly closed them again. He lay on his back without stirring. "Is it still a dream?" he wondered and again raised his eyelids almost imperceptibly; the stranger was standing in the same place, still watching him. He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door after him, went up to the table, paused a moment, still keeping his eyes on Raskolnikov and noiselessly seated himself on the chair by the sofa; he put his hat on the floor beside him and leaned his hands on his cane and his chin on his hands. It was evident that he was prepared to wait indefinitely. As far as Raskolnikov could make out from his stolen glances, he was stout, with a full, fair, almost whitish beard. Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but dusk was just falling. There was a complete stillness in the room. Not a sound came from the stairs. Only a big fly buzzed and fluttered against the window pane. Finally, it became unbearable. Raskolnikov suddenly got up and sat on the sofa. "Come, tell me what you want." "I knew you weren't asleep, just pretending," the stranger answered oddly, laughing calmly. "Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov, allow me to introduce myself . . . " PART FOUR CHAPTER ONE "CAN THIS BE STILL a dream?" Raskolnikov thought once more. He looked carefully and suspiciously at the unexpected visitor. "Svidrigailov! What nonsense! It can't be!" he said at last aloud in bewilderment. His visitor did not seem at all surprised at this exclamation. "I've come to you for two reasons. Firstly, I wanted to meet you personally, as I have already heard a great deal about you that is interesting and flattering; secondly, I dearly hope that you may not refuse to assist me in a matter which directly concerns the welfare of your sister, Avdotia Romanovna. Without your support she might not let me come near her now, since she is prejudiced against me, but with your help I think I . . . " "You think wrongly," interrupted Raskolnikov. "They only arrived yesterday, didn't they?" Raskolnikov made no reply. "It was yesterday, I know. I only arrived myself the day before. Well, let me tell you, Rodion Romanovich, I don't consider it necessary to justify myself; but I would be grateful if you could explain to me what was particularly criminal about how I behaved in all this, speaking without prejudice, with common sense?" Raskolnikov continued to look at him in silence. "That in my own house I persecuted a defenseless girl and ?Äòin sulted her with my appalling proposals' is that it? (I am anticipating you.) But you've only to assume that I, too, am a man et nihil humanum . . . 33 in a word, that I am capable of being attracted and falling in love (which does not depend on our will), then everything can be explained in the most natural manner. The question is, am I a monster, or am I myself a victim? And what if I am a victim? In proposing to the object of my passion to elope with me to America or Switzerland, I may have cherished the deepest respect for her and may have thought that I was promoting our mutual happiness! Reason is the slave of passion, you know; why, probably, I was doing more harm to myself than anyone!" "But that not the point," Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust. "It simply that whether you are right or wrong, we dislike you. We don't want to have anything to do with you. We will show you the door. Get out!" Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh. "But you're . . . but I can't get round you," he said, laughing in the frankest way. "I was hoping to get round you, but you took up the right line at once!" "But you are trying to get round me still!" "What of it? What of it?" cried Svidrigailov, laughing openly. "But this is what the French call bonne guerre,34 and the most innocent form of deception! . . . But still you have interrupted me; one way or another, I repeat again: there would never have been any unpleasantness except for what happened in the garden. Marfa Petrovna . . . " "You've got rid of Marfa Petrovna, too, so they say?" Raskolnikov interrupted rudely. "Oh, you've heard that, too, then? You'd be sure to, though . . . But as for your question, I really don't know what to say, though my own conscience is quite at rest on that score. Don't suppose that I am in any apprehension about it. All was regular and in order; the medical inquiry diagnosed apoplexy due to bathing immediately after a heavy dinner and a bottle of wine, and indeed it could have proved nothing else. But I'll tell you what I have been thinking to myself recently, on my way here in the train, especially: didn't I contribute to that whole . . . calamity, morally, in a way, by my irritation or something of the sort. But I came to the conclusion that that, too, was out of the question." Raskolnikov laughed. "I'm amazed you trouble yourself about it!" "But what are you laughing at? Only consider, I struck her just twice with a whip there were no marks even . . . don't regard me as a cynic, please; I am perfectly aware how atrocious it was of me; but I know for certain, too, that Marfa Petrovna was very likely pleased at my warmth, so to speak. The story of your sister had been wrung out to the last drop; for the last three days Marfa Petrovna had been forced to sit at home; she had nothing to show herself with in the town. Besides, she had bored them so much with that letter (you heard about her reading the letter). And all of a sudden those two whiplashes fell from heaven! Her first act was to order the carriage to be got out . . . Not to speak of the fact that there are cases when women are very, very glad to be insulted in spite of all their show of indignation. There are instances of it with everyone; human beings in general, indeed, greatly love to be insulted, have you noticed that? But it particularly so with women. You might even say it their only amusement." At one time Raskolnikov thought of getting up and walking out and thus drawing their interview to a close. But some curiosity and even a sort of carefulness made him linger for a moment. "Are you fond of fighting?" he asked casually. "No, not very," Svidrigailov answered, calmly. "And Marfa Petrovna and I scarcely ever fought. We lived very harmoniously, and she was always pleased with me. I only used the whip twice in all our seven years (not counting a third occasion, which was really very ambiguous). The first time was two months after our marriage, immediately after we arrived in the country, and the last time was the one we were just speaking about. Did you suppose I was such a monster, such a reactionary, such a slave driver? Ha, ha! By the way, do you remember, Rodion Romanovich, how a few years ago, in those days of kindly publicity, a nobleman, I've forgotten his name, was put to shame everywhere, in all the papers, for having thrashed a German woman in the railway train. You remember? It was in those days, the same year I believe, that the ?Äòdisgraceful action of the Age' took place (you know, ?ÄòThe Egyptian Nights,'35 that public reading, you remember? The dark eyes, you know! Ah, the golden days of our youth, where are they now?).36 Well, as for the gentleman who thrashed the German, I feel no sympathy with him, because after all what need is there for sympathy? But I must say that there are sometimes such provoking ?ÄòGermans' that I don't believe there is a progressive who could quite answer for himself. No-one looked at the subject from that point of view then, but that the truly humane point of view, I assure you." After saying this, Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh again. Raskolnikov saw clearly that this was a man with a firm purpose in his mind who was able to keep it to himself. "I expect you've not talked to anyone for several days?" he asked. "Scarcely anyone. I suppose you are wondering at how adaptable a man I am?" "No, I am only wondering at the fact that you are too adaptable." "Because I am not offended at the rudeness of your questions? Is that it? But why take offence? As you asked, so I answered," he replied, with a surprising expression of simplicity. "You know, there hardly anything I take interest in," he went on, as it were dreamily, "especially now, I've nothing to do . . . You are entirely free to imagine though that I am making up to you with a motive, particularly as I told you I want to see your sister about something. But I'll confess frankly, I am very bored. The last three days especially, so I am delighted to see you . . . Don't be angry, Rodion Romanovich, but you seem somehow to be very strange yourself. Say what you like, there something wrong with you, and now, too . . . not this very minute, I mean, but now, generally ... Well, well, I won't, I won't, don't scowl! I am not as much of a bear, you know, as you think." Raskolnikov looked gloomily at him. "You're not a bear, perhaps, at all," he said. "In fact, I think you're a man of very good breeding, or at least know how on occasion to behave like one." "I am not particularly interested in anyone opinion," Svidrigailov answered, dryly and even with a shade of pride, "and therefore why not be vulgar at times when vulgarity is such a convenient cloak for our climate . . . and especially if you are naturally inclined that way," he added, laughing again. "But I've heard you have many friends here. You are, as they say, ?Äònot without connections.' What can you want from me, then, unless you have some special purpose?" "That true that I have friends here," Svidrigailov admitted, not responding to the main point. "I've met some already. I've been lounging about for the last three days, and I've seen them, or they've seen me. That a matter of course. I'm well dressed, I'm not considered poor. The emancipation of the serfs hasn't affected me: my property consists mainly of forests and water meadows. The revenue has not fallen off; but . . . I am not going to see them, I was sick of them long ago. I've been here three days and have called on no-one . . . What a town it is! How has it come into existence among us, tell me that? A town of officials and students of all sorts. Yes, there a great deal I didn't notice when I was here eight years ago, kicking up my heels . . . My only hope now is in anatomy, by God, it is!" "Anatomy?" "But as for these clubs, Dussauts,37 parades, or progress, indeed, may be well, all that can go on without me," he went on, again without noticing the question. "Besides, who wants to be a card-cheat?" "Why, have you been a card-cheat then?" "How could I help being? There was a regular set of us, men of the best society, eight years ago; we had a fine time. And all men of breeding, you know, poets, men of property. And in fact as a rule in Russian society, the best manners are found among those who've been thrashed, have you noticed that? I've deteriorated in the country. But I did get into prison for debt, because of a mean Greek from Nezhin.38 Then Marfa Petrovna turned up; she bargained with him and bought me off for thirty thousand silver pieces (I owed seventy thousand). We were united in lawful wedlock and she bore me off into the country like a treasure. You know she was five years older than I. She was very fond of me. For seven years I never left the country. And take note that all my life she held a document over me, the I.O.U. for thirty thousand rubles, so if I were to choose to complain about anything I would be trapped at once! And she would have done it! Women find nothing incompatible in that." "If it hadn't been for that, would you have given her the slip?" "I don't know what to say. It was scarcely the document that restrained me. I didn't want to go anywhere else. Marfa Petrovna herself invited me to go abroad, seeing I was bored, but I've been abroad before; I always felt sick there. For no reason, but the sunrise, the bay of Naples, the sea you look at them and it makes you sad. What most revolting is that you really get sad! No, it better at home. Here at least you blame others for everything and excuse yourself. I should have gone perhaps on an expedition to the North Pole, because I take wine badly and hate drinking, and there nothing left but wine. I've tried it. But I've been told Berg39 is going up in a large balloon next Sunday from the Yusupov Garden and will take up passengers at a fee. Is it true?" "Why, would you go up?" "I . . . No, oh, no," muttered Svidrigailov, really seeming to be deep in thought. "What does he mean? Is he serious?" Raskolnikov wondered. "No, the document didn't restrain me," Svidrigailov went on, meditatively. "It was my own doing, not leaving the country, and nearly a year ago Marfa Petrovna gave me back the document on my name day and made me a present of a considerable sum of money, too. She had a fortune, you know. ?ÄòYou see how I trust you, Arkady Ivanovich' that was actually her expression. You don't believe she used it? But do you know I managed the estate quite decently, they know me in the neighborhood. I ordered books, too. Marfa Petrovna approved at first, but afterwards she was afraid that I was over-studying." "You seem to be missing Marfa Petrovna very much?" "Missing her? Perhaps. Really, perhaps I am. And, by the way, do you believe in ghosts?" "What ghosts?" "Why, ordinary ghosts." "Do you believe in them?" "Perhaps not, to please you . . . I wouldn't say no exactly." "Do you see them, then?" Svidrigailov looked at him rather oddly. "Marfa Petrovna is pleased to visit me," he said, twisting his mouth into a strange smile. "What do you mean, ?Äòshe is pleased to visit you'?" "She has been three times. I saw her first on the very day of the funeral, an hour after she was buried. It was the day before I left to come here. The second time was the day before yesterday, at daybreak, on the journey at the station of Malaia Vishera,40 and the third time was two hours ago in the room where I am staying. I was alone." "Were you awake?" "Absolutely. I was wide awake every time. She comes, speaks to me for a minute and goes out at the door always at the door. I can almost hear her." "What made me think that something of the sort must be happening to you?" Raskolnikov said suddenly. At the same moment he was surprised at having said it. He was extremely excited. "What! Did you think so?" Svidrigailov asked in astonishment. "Did you really? Didn't I say that there was something in common between us?" "You never said so!" Raskolnikov cried sharply and with heat. "Didn't I?" "No!" "I thought I did. When I came in and saw you lying with your eyes shut, pretending, I said to myself at once, ?Äòhere the man.' " "What do you mean by ?Äòthe man'? What are you talking about?" cried Raskolnikov. "What do I mean? I really don't know . . . " Svidrigailov muttered ingenuously, as though he, too, were puzzled. For a minute they were silent. They stared in each other faces. "That all nonsense!" Raskolnikov shouted with vexation. "What does she say when she comes to you?" "She! Would you believe it, she talks of the silliest trifles and man is a strange creature it makes me angry. The first time she came in (I was tired you know: the funeral service, the funeral ceremony, the lunch afterwards. At last I was left alone in my study. I lit a cigar and began to think), she came in at the door. ?ÄòYou've been so busy today, Arkady Ivanovich, you've forgotten to wind the dining room clock,' she said. All those seven years I've wound that clock every week, and if I forgot it she would always remind me. The next day I set off on my way here. I got out at the station at daybreak; I'd been asleep, tired out, with my eyes half open, I was drinking some coffee. I looked up and there was suddenly Marfa Petrovna sitting beside me with a pack of cards in her hands. ?ÄòShall I tell your fortune for the journey, Arkady Ivanovich?' She was a great one for telling fortunes. I shall never forgive myself for not asking her to. I ran away in a fright, and, besides, the bell rang. I was sitting today, feeling very heavy after a miserable dinner from a caf?(c); I was sitting smoking, and all of a sudden Marfa Petrovna appeared again. She came in very smart in a new green silk dress with a long train. ?ÄòHello, Arkady Ivanovich! How do you like my dress? Aniska couldn't make one like this.' (Aniska was a dressmaker in the country, one of our former serf girls who had been trained in Moscow, a pretty wench.) She stood turning round before me. I looked at the dress, and then I looked carefully, very carefully, at her face. ?ÄòI'm surprised you bother to come to me about such unimportant matters, Marfa Petrovna.' ?ÄòGood gracious, you won't let anyone disturb you about anything!' To tease her I said, ?ÄòI want to get married, Marfa Petrovna.' ?ÄòThat just like you, Arkady Ivanovich; it does you very little credit to come looking for a bride when you've hardly buried your wife. And if you could make a good choice, at least, but I know it won't be for your happiness or hers, you will only be a laughing-stock to all good people.' Then she went out and her train seemed to rustle. Isn't it nonsense?" "But perhaps you are lying?" Raskolnikov put in. "I rarely lie," answered Svidrigailov thoughtfully, apparently not noticing the rudeness of the question. "And in the past, have you ever seen ghosts before?" "Y-yes, I have seen them, but only once in my life, six years ago. I had a serf, Filka; just after his burial I called out forgetfully, ?ÄòFilka, my pipe!' He came in and went to the cupboard where my pipes were. I sat still and thought, ?ÄòHe is doing it to take revenge on me,' because we had a violent quarrel just before his death. ?ÄòHow dare you come in with a hole in your elbow,' I said. ?ÄòGo away, you fool!' He turned and went out, and never came again. I didn't tell Marfa Petrovna at the time. I wanted to have a service sung for him, but I was ashamed." "You should go to a doctor." "I know I am not well, without your telling me, though I don't know what wrong; I believe I am five times as strong as you are. I didn't ask you whether you believe that ghosts can be seen, but whether you believe that they exist." "No, I won't believe it!" Raskolnikov cried, with real anger. "What do people generally say?" muttered Svidrigailov, as though speaking to himself, looking aside and bowing his head: "They say, ?ÄòYou are ill, so what appears to you is only unreal fantasy.' But that not strictly logical. I agree that ghosts only appear to the sick, but that only proves that they are unable to appear except to the sick, not that they don't exist." "Nothing of the sort," Raskolnikov insisted irritably. "No? You don't think so?" Svidrigailov went on, looking at him deliberately. "But what do you say to this argument (come on, help me with it): ghosts are as it were shreds and fragments of other worlds, the beginning of them. A man in health has, of course, no reason to see them, because he is above all a man of this earth and is bound for the sake of completeness and order to live only in this life. But as soon as he is ill, as soon as the normal earthly order of the organism is broken, he begins to realize the possibility of another world; and the more seriously ill he is, the closer becomes his contact with that other world, so that as soon as the man dies he steps straight into that world. I thought of that long ago. If you believe in a future life, you could believe in that, too." "I don't believe in a future life," said Raskolnikov. Svidrigailov sat lost in thought. "And what if there are only spiders there, or something of that sort," he said suddenly. "He is a madman," thought Raskolnikov. "We always imagine eternity as something beyond our conception, something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, what if it one little room, like a bathhouse in the country, black and grimy and spiders in every corner, and that all eternity is? I sometimes imagine it like that." "Can it be you can imagine nothing more just and comforting than that?" Raskolnikov cried, with a feeling of anguish. "More just? And how can we tell, perhaps that is just, and, do you know, it what I would certainly have made it," answered Svidrigailov, with a vague smile. This horrible answer sent a cold chill through Raskolnikov. Svidrigailov raised his head, looked at him, and suddenly started laughing. "Only think," he cried, "half an hour ago we had never seen each other, we regarded each other as enemies; there is a matter unsettled between us; we've thrown it aside, and away we've gone into the abstract! Wasn't I right in saying that we were birds of a feather?" "Please allow me," Raskolnikov went on irritably, "to ask you to explain why you have honored me with your visit . . . and . . . and I am in a hurry, I have no time to waste. I want to go out." "By all means, by all means. Your sister, Avdotia Romanovna, is going to be married to Mr. Luzhin, Peter Petrovich?" "Can you stop asking questions about my sister and mentioning her name? I can't understand how you dare say her name in my presence, if you really are Svidrigailov." "But I've come here to speak about her; how can I avoid mentioning her?" "Very good, speak, but be quick about it." "I am sure that you must have formed your own opinion of this Mr. Luzhin, who is a connection of mine through my wife, if you have only seen him for half an hour, or heard any facts about him. He is no match for Avdotia Romanovna. I believe Avdotia Romanovna is sacrificing herself generously and imprudently for the sake of . . . for the sake of her family. I imagined from all I had heard of you that you would be very glad if the engagement could be broken off without sacrificing any material advantages. Now I know you personally, I am convinced of it." "All this is very naive . . . excuse me, I should have said insolent on your part," said Raskolnikov. "You mean to say that I am seeking my own ends. Don't be uneasy, Rodion Romanovich, if I were working for my own advantage, I would not have spoken out so directly. I am not quite a fool. I will confess something psychologically curious about that: just now, defending my love for Avdotia Romanovna, I said I was myself the victim. Well, let me tell you that I've no feeling of love now, not the slightest, so that I wonder myself indeed, because I really did feel something . . . " "Through idleness and depravity," Raskolnikov put in. "I certainly am idle and depraved, but your sister has such qualities that even I could not help being impressed by them. But that all nonsense, as I see myself now." "Have you seen that long?" "I began to be aware of it before, but was only perfectly sure of it the day before yesterday, almost at the moment I arrived in Petersburg. I still imagined in Moscow, though, that I was coming to try to get Avdotia Romanovna hand and to cut out Mr. Luzhin." "Excuse me for interrupting you; please be brief and tell me why you've come to visit. I am in a hurry, I want to go out . . . " "With the greatest of pleasure. On arriving here and deciding to make a certain . . . journey, I would like to make some necessary preliminary arrangements. I left my children with an aunt; they are well provided for; and they have no need of me personally. And a nice father I'd make, too! I have taken nothing but what Marfa Petrovna gave me a year ago. That enough for me. Excuse me, I am just coming to the point. Before the journey, which may come off, I want to settle Mr. Luzhin, too. It not that I hate him so much, but it was because of him that I quarreled with Marfa Petrovna when I learned that she had served up this marriage. I would now like to see Avdotia Romanovna through your mediation and, if you like, in your presence, to explain to her that in the first place she will never gain anything but harm from Mr. Luzhin. Then begging her pardon for all past unpleasantness, to make her a present of ten thousand rubles and so assist the rupture with Mr. Luzhin, a rupture to which I believe she is herself not disinclined, if she could find some way of achieving it." "You're absolutely insane," cried Raskolnikov, not so much angered as astonished. "How dare you talk like that!" "I knew you would scream at me; but in the first place, though I am not rich, this ten thousand rubles is perfectly free; I have absolutely no need for it. If Avdotia Romanovna does not accept it, I shall waste it in some more foolish way. That the first thing. Secondly, my conscience is perfectly at ease; I am not making the offer with any ulterior motive. You may not believe it, but in the end Avdotia Romanovna and you will know. The point is that I did actually cause your sister, whom I greatly respect, some trouble and unpleasantness, and so, sincerely regretting it, I want not to compensate, not to repay her for the unpleasantness, but simply to do something to her advantage, to show that I am not, after all, privileged to do nothing but harm. If there were a millionth fraction of self-interest in my offer, I should not have made it so openly; and I should not have offered her ten thousand only, when five weeks ago I offered her more. Besides, I may, perhaps, very soon marry a young lady, and that alone ought to prevent suspicion of any design on Avdotia Romanovna. In conclusion, let me say that in marrying Mr. Luzhin, she is taking money just the same, only from another man. Don't be angry, Rodion Romanovich, think it over coolly and quietly." Svidrigailov himself was extremely cool and quiet when he was saying this. "Please don't say anything else," said Raskolnikov. "In any case, this is unforgivably insolent." "Not in the least. Then a man may do nothing but harm to his neighbor in this world, and is prevented from doing the tiniest bit of good by trivial conventional formalities. That absurd. If I died, for instance, and left that sum to your sister in my will, surely she wouldn't refuse it?" "Very likely she would." "Oh, no, she would not. If you refuse it, so be it, though ten thousand rubles is a wonderful thing to have on occasion. In any case, please repeat what I have said to Avdotia Romanovna." "No, I won't." "In that case, Rodion Romanovich, I shall be obliged to try and see her myself and worry her by doing so." "And if I do tell her, will you not try to see her?" "I don't really know what to say. I would like very much to see her once more." "Don't hope for it." "I'm sorry. But you don't know me. Perhaps we may become better friends." "You think we may become friends?" "And why not?" Svidrigailov said, smiling. He stood up and took his hat. "I didn't really intend to disturb you and I came here without thinking I would . . . though I was very struck by your face this morning." "Where did you see me this morning?" Raskolnikov asked uneasily. "I saw you by chance . . . I kept thinking we have something in common . . . But don't be uneasy. I am not intrusive; I used to get on all right with card-cheats, and I never bored Prince Svirbey, a great nobleman who is a distant relation of mine, and I could write about Raphael Madonna in Madam Prilukov album, and I never left Marfa Petrovna side for seven years, and I used to stay the night at Viazemsky house in the Haymarket in the old days, and I may go up in a balloon with Berg, perhaps." "All right, all right. Are you setting off soon on your travels?" "What travels?" "On that ?Äòjourney'; you mentioned it yourself." "A journey? Oh, yes. I did mention a journey. Well, that a broad topic . . . if only you knew what you are asking," he added, and gave a sudden, loud, short laugh. "Perhaps I'll get married instead of the journey. They're making a match for me." "Here?" "Yes." "How have you had time for that?" "But I am very anxious to see Avdotia Romanovna once. Please. Well, goodbye for now. Oh, yes, I've forgotten something. Tell your sister, Rodion Romanovich, that Marfa Petrovna remembered her in her will and left her three thousand rubles. That absolutely certain. Marfa Petrovna arranged it a week before her death, and it was done in my presence. Avdotia Romanovna will be able to receive the money in two or three weeks." "Are you telling the truth?" "Yes, tell her. Well, I am at your service. I am staying close by." As he went out, Svidrigailov ran into Razumikhin in the doorway. CHAPTER TWO IT WAS NEARLY EIGHT o'clock. The two young men hurried to Bakaleyev , to arrive before Luzhin. "Who was that?" asked Razumikhin, as soon as they were in the street. "It was Svidrigailov, that landowner whose house my sister was insulted in when she was their governess. She was turned out by his wife, Marfa Petrovna, because he kept persecuting her with his ?Äòat- tention'. This Marfa Petrovna begged Dunia forgiveness afterwards, and she just died suddenly. That was the woman we were talking about this morning. I don't know why I'm afraid of him. He came here at once after his wife funeral. He is very strange, and he is determined to do something . . . We must protect Dunia from him . . . that what I wanted to tell you." "Protect her! What can he do to harm Avdotia Romanovna? Thank you, Rodia, for telling me about it ... We will, we will protect her. Where does he live?" "I don't know." "Why didn't you ask? What a pity! I'll find out, though." "Did you see him?" asked Raskolnikov after a pause. "Yes, I took notice of him, I took careful notice of him." "You did really see him? You saw him clearly?" Raskolnikov insisted. "Yes, I remember him perfectly, I would recognize him in a crowd of a thousand; I have a good memory for faces." They were silent again. "Hm! . . . that all right," muttered Raskolnikov. "Do you know, I imagined . . . I keep thinking that it may have been a hallucination." "What do you mean? I don't understand." "Well, you all say," Raskolnikov went on, twisting his mouth into a smile, "that I'm mad. I thought just now that perhaps I really am mad, and that I just saw a ghost." "What do you mean?" "Why, who can tell? Perhaps I am really mad, and perhaps everything that happens these days is just my imagination." "Ah, Rodia, you have been upset again! . . . But what did he say, what did he come for?" Raskolnikov did not answer. Razumikhin thought for a minute. "Now let me tell you my story," he began, "I came to you, you were asleep. Then we had dinner and then I went to Porfiry , Zametov was still with him. I tried to start, but it was no use. I couldn't speak in the right way. They don't seem to understand and can't understand, but they aren't even slightly ashamed of themselves. I drew Porfiry to the window, and began talking to him, but it was still no use. He looked away and I looked away. At last I shook my fist in his ugly face, and told him as a cousin I'd brain him. He just looked at me, I cursed and left. That was all. It was very stupid. I didn't say a word to Zametov. But, you see, I thought I'd made a mess of it, but as I went downstairs a brilliant idea struck me: why should we bother? Of course, if you were in any danger or anything, but why should you care? You shouldn't care about them at all. We shall have a laugh at them afterwards, and if I were in your place I'd mystify them more than ever. How ashamed they'll be afterwards! Damn them! We can thrash them afterwards, so let laugh at them now!" "Definitely," answered Raskolnikov. "But what will you say tomorrow?" he thought to himself. Strangely enough, until that moment it had never occurred to him to wonder what Razumikhin would think when he knew. As he was thinking, Raskolnikov looked at him. Razumikhin account of his visit to Porfiry held very little interest for him; so much had come and gone since then. In the corridor they found Luzhin; he had arrived punctually at eight, and was looking for the number, so all three went in together without greeting or looking at one another. The young men walked in first, while Peter Petrovich, in order to preserve his good manners, lingered a little in the passage, taking off his coat. Pulcheria Alexandrovna came forward at once to greet him in the doorway; Dunia was welcoming her brother. Peter Petrovich walked in and quite amiably, though with even greater dignity, bowed to the ladies. He looked, however, as though he were a little offended and could not yet recover his composure. Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who also seemed a little embarrassed, quickly made them all sit down at the round table where a samovar was boiling. Dunia and Luzhin were facing one another on opposite sides of the table. Razumikhin and Raskolnikov were facing Pulcheria Alexandrovna, Razumikhin was next to Luzhin and Raskolnikov was beside his sister. A moment silence followed. Peter Petrovich deliberately drew out a cambric handkerchief stinking of scent and blew his nose with an air of a kindly man who felt offended and had decided to insist on an explanation. In the passage an idea had occurred to him to keep on his overcoat and walk away, and so give the two ladies a sharp and emphatic lesson and make them feel the seriousness of the situation. But he could not bring himself to do this. Besides, he could not stand uncertainty and he wanted an explanation: if his request had been so openly disobeyed, there was something behind it, and in that case it was better to find it out beforehand; it was his task to punish them and there would always be time for that. "I trust you had a good journey," he asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna officially. "Oh, very, Peter Petrovich." "I am pleased to hear it. And Avdotia Romanovna is not overly tired either?" "I am young and strong, I don't get tired, but it was a great strain for mother," answered Dunia. "That unavoidable; our national railways are of terrible length. ?ÄòMother Russia,' as they say, is a vast country . . . In spite of all my desire to do so, I was unable to meet you yesterday. But I trust everything passed off without any inconvenience?" "Oh, no, Peter Petrovich, it was all terribly disheartening," Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared hurriedly in a strange tone of voice, "and if Dmitri Prokofich had not been sent to us, I really believe by God Himself, we would have been totally lost. Here, he is! Dmitri Prokofich Razumikhin," she added, introducing him to Luzhin. "I had the pleasure . . . yesterday," muttered Peter Petrovich with a hostile sideways glance at Razumikhin; then he scowled and fell silent. Peter Petrovich belonged to that class of people who on the surface are very polite in society, who make a great point of behaving properly, but who are completely disconcerted when they are contradicted about anything, and become more like sacks of flour than elegant, lively people of society. Again everyone was silent; Raskolnikov was obstinately mute, Avdotia Romanovna was unwilling to start the conversation again too soon. Razumikhin had nothing to say, so Pulcheria Alexandrovna was anxious again. "Marfa Petrovna is dead, have you heard?" she began having recourse to her leading item of conversation. "Yes, I heard so. I was immediately informed, and I have come to tell you that Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov set off in haste for Petersburg immediately after his wife funeral. So at least I have excellent grounds for believing it." "To Petersburg? Here?" Dunia asked in alarm and looked at her mother. "Yes, and doubtlessly not without some kind of intention, bearing in mind how swiftly he left, and all the preceding circumstances." "Goodness! Won't he leave Dunia in peace even here?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "I imagine that neither you nor Avdotia Romanovna has any grounds for uneasiness, unless, of course, you wish to communicate with him. As far as I am concerned, I am going to watch out for him; I am currently trying to find out where he is staying." "Oh, Peter Petrovich, you would not believe what a fright you have given me," Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on. "I've only seen him twice, but I thought he was terrible, terrible! I am convinced that he was the cause of Marfa Petrovna death." "It impossible to be certain about that. I have precise information. I do not dispute that he may have accelerated the course of events by the moral influence, so to say, of the offence; but as to his general conduct and moral characteristics, I agree with you. I do not know whether he is well off now, and precisely what Marfa Petrovna left him; this will be known to me within a very short period; but no doubt here in Petersburg, if he has any financial resources, he will lapse at once into his old habits. He is the most vicious, depraved specimen of that particular type. I have considerable reason to believe that Marfa Petrovna, who was unfortunate enough to fall in love with him and to pay his debts eight years ago, was also of service to him in another way. Solely by her exertions and sacrifices, a criminal charge, involving an element of fantastic and homicidal brutality for which he might well have been sentenced to Siberia, was hushed up. That the sort of man he is, if you care to know." "Good heavens!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Raskolnikov listened attentively. "Are you speaking the truth when you say that you have good evidence of this?" Dunia asked sternly and emphatically. "I only repeat what I was told in secret by Marfa Petrovna. I must observe that from the legal point of view the case was far from clear. There was, and I believe still is, living here a woman called Resslich, a foreigner, who lent small sums of money at interest, and did other commissions, and with this woman Svidrigailov had for a long while close and mysterious relations. She had a relation, a niece I believe, living with her, a deaf and dumb girl fifteen years of age, or perhaps not more than fourteen. Resslich hated this girl, and grudged her every crust; she used to beat her mercilessly. One day the girl was found hanging in the garret. At the inquest the verdict was suicide. After the usual proceedings the matter ended, but, later on, information was given that the child had been . . . cruelly outraged by Svidrigailov. It is true, this was not clearly established, the information was given by another German woman of notorious character whose word could not be trusted; no statement was actually made to the police, thanks to Marfa Petrovna money and efforts; it did not get beyond gossip. And yet the story is a very significant one. You heard, no doubt, Avdotia Romanovna, when you were with them the story of the servant Philip who died of ill treatment he received six years ago, before the abolition of serfdom." "I heard on the contrary that this Philip hanged himself." "That is true, but what drove him, or rather perhaps disposed him, to suicide, was the systematic persecution and severity of Mr. Svidrigailov." "I don't know that," answered Dunia, dryly. "I only heard a strange story that Philip was some type of hypochondriac, a sort of domestic philosopher, the servants used to say, ?Äòhe read himself silly,' and that he hanged himself partly because of Mr. Svidrigailov mockery of him and not the injuries he inflicted. When I was there he behaved well to the servants, and they were actually fond of him, though they certainly did blame him for Philip death." "I notice, Avdotia Romanovna, that you seem disposed to undertake his defense all of a sudden," Luzhin observed, twisting his lips into an ambiguous smile, "there no doubt that he is an astute man, and charming where ladies are concerned, of which Marfa Petrovna, who has died so strangely, is a terrible example. My only desire has been to be of service to you and your mother with my advice, in view of the renewed efforts which may certainly be anticipated from him. For my part it my firm conviction that he will end up in debtor prison again. Marfa Petrovna had not the slightest intention of leaving him anything substantial, given his children interests, and, if she left him anything, it would only be the slightest means on which to get by, something insignificant, which would not last a year for a man of his habits." "Peter Petrovich, I beg you," said Dunia, "don't say anything else about Mr. Svidrigailov. It makes me miserable." "He has just been to see me," said Raskolnikov, breaking his silence for the first time. There were exclamations from everyone, and they all turned to him. Even Peter Petrovich interest was aroused. "An hour and a half ago, he came in when I was asleep, woke me up, and introduced himself," Raskolnikov continued. "He was fairly cheerful and at ease, and hopes that we shall become friends. He is particularly anxious by the way, Dunia, to arrange an interview with you, at which he asked me to be present. He has a proposition to make to you, and he told me about it. He told me, too, that a week before her death Marfa Petrovna left you three thousand rubles in her will, Dunia, and that you will receive the money very soon." "Thank God!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself. "Pray for her soul, Dunia!" "It a fact!" broke from Luzhin. "Tell us, what more?" Dunia urged Raskolnikov. "Then he said that he wasn't rich and all the estate was left to his children who are now with an aunt, then that he was staying somewhere not far from me, but where, I don't know, I didn't ask . . . " "But what, what is this proposition he wants to make to Dunia?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna in a fright. "Did he tell you?" "Yes." "What was it?" "I'll tell you afterwards." Raskolnikov ceased speaking and turned his attention to his tea. Peter Petrovich looked at his watch. "I am compelled to keep a business engagement, and so I shall not be in your way," he added with an air of some pique and he began getting up. "Don't go, Peter Petrovich," said Dunia, "you intended to spend the evening here. Besides, you wrote yourself that you wanted to sort something out with mother." "Precisely so, Avdotia Romanovna," Peter Petrovich answered impressively, sitting down again, but still holding his hat. "I certainly desired to sort out a very important point with you and your mother, whom I respect so highly. But as your brother cannot speak openly in my presence about Mr. Svidrigailov proposals, I, too, do not desire and am not able to speak openly . . . in the presence of others . . . about certain matters of the greatest importance. Moreover, my most insistent and urgent request has been disregarded . . . " Assuming an aggrieved air, Luzhin lapsed into dignified silence. "Your request that my brother should not be present at our meeting was disregarded solely because I wanted to disregard it," said Dunia. "You wrote that you had been insulted by my brother; I think you must explain this at once, and you must be reconciled. And if Rodia really has insulted you, then he should and will apologize." Peter Petrovich took a stronger line. "There are insults, Avdotia Romanovna, which no goodwill can make us forget. There is a line in everything which it is dangerous to overstep; and when it has been overstepped, there is no return." "That wasn't quite what I was talking about, Peter Petrovich," Dunia interrupted with some impatience. "Please understand that our whole future now depends on whether all this can be explained and set right as soon as possible. I am telling you frankly, from the start, that I cannot look at it in any other light, and if you have the slightest regard for me, this business must end today, however hard that may be. I repeat that if my brother is to blame he will ask your forgiveness." "I am surprised that you put the question like that," said Luzhin, getting more and more irritated. "Respecting and, so to say, adoring you, I may at the same time, very well indeed, be able to dislike a member of your family. Though I lay claim to the happiness of your hand in marriage, I cannot accept duties incompatible with . . . " "Ah, don't be so ready to take offence, Peter Petrovich," Dunia interrupted with feeling, "and be the sensible and generous man I have always considered, and wish to consider, you to be. I've given you a great promise; I am engaged to you. Trust me in this matter and, believe me, I shall be capable of judging impartially. My assuming the part of judge is as much a surprise for my brother as for you. When I insisted that he came to our interview today after your letter, I told him nothing about what I meant to do. You must understand that, if you are not reconciled, I must choose between you it must be either you or he. That is how the question rests on your side and on his. I don't want to be mistaken in my choice, and I must not be. For your sake I must break off with my brother, for my brother sake I must break off with you. I can find out for certain now whether he is behaving like a brother to me and, as a matter of fact, I would like to; and I can also find out whether I am dear to you, whether you respect me, whether you are the husband for me." "Avdotia Romanovna," Luzhin declared in an offended tone, "your words have too many implications for me; moreover, they are offensive in view of the position I have the honor to occupy in relation to you. To say nothing of your strange and offensive behavior in setting me on a level with an insolent boy, you admit the possibility of breaking your promise to me. You say ?Äòyou or he,' thereby showing how unimportant I am to you . . . I cannot let this pass considering the relationship and . . . the obligations existing between us." "What!" cried Dunia, flushing. "I set your interest beside everything that has up until now been most precious in my life, what has made up the whole of my life, and here you are offended because I haven't sufficiently taken you into account!" Raskolnikov smiled sarcastically, Razumikhin fidgeted, but Peter Petrovich did not accept her rebuke; on the contrary, at every word he became more persistent and irritable, as though he relished it. "Love for the future partner of your life, for your husband, ought to outweigh your love for your brother," he pronounced sententiously, "and in any case I cannot be put on the same level . . . Although I said so emphatically that I would not speak openly in your brother presence, nevertheless I now intend to ask your dear mother for a necessary explanation on a point of which is extremely important to my dignity. Your son," he turned to Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "yesterday in the presence of Mr. Razsudkin (or . . . I think that it? excuse me I have forgotten your surname," he bowed politely to Razumikhin) "insulted me by misrepresenting the idea I expressed to you in a private conversation over coffee, that is, that marriage to a poor girl who has had her fair share of troubles is more advantageous from the conjugal point of view than a marriage to a girl who has lived in luxury, since it is more profitable for the moral character. Your son intentionally exaggerated the significance of my words and made them ridiculous, accusing me of malicious intentions, and, as far as I could see, relied on your correspondence with him. I shall consider myself happy, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, if you could convince me of the opposite conclusion and thus considerately reassure me. Please let me know in what terms precisely you repeated my words in your letter to Rodion Romanovich." "I don't remember," faltered Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "I repeated them as I understood them. I don't know how Rodia repeated them to you, perhaps he exaggerated." "He could not have exaggerated them unless you gave him good cause." "Peter Petrovich," Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared with dignity, "the proof that Dunia and I did not take your words in a very bad sense is the fact that we are here." "Good, Mother," said Dunia approvingly. "Then this is my fault again," said Luzhin, aggrieved. "Well, Peter Petrovich, you keep blaming Rodion, but you yourself have just written something false about him," Pulcheria Alexandrovna added, gaining courage. "I don't remember writing anything false." "You wrote," Raskolnikov said sharply, not turning to Luzhin, "that I gave money yesterday not to the widow of the man who was killed, as was the case, but to his daughter (whom I had never seen until yesterday). You wrote this to cause a rift between me and my family, and so you added coarse expressions about the conduct of a girl whom you don't know. That is all the meanest sort of slander." "Excuse me, sir," said Luzhin, quivering with fury. "I enlarged upon your qualities and conduct in my letter solely in response to your sister and mother inquiries about how I found you and what impression you made on me. As for what you've referred to in my letter, be so good as to point out one word of falsehood, show, that is, that you didn't throw away your money, and that there are not worthless persons in that family, however unfortunate." "To my thinking, you with all your virtues are not worth the little finger of that unfortunate girl at whom you choose to throw stones." "Would you go so far then as to let her associate with your mother and sister?" "I have done so already, if you care to know. I made her sit down today with mother and Dunia." "Rodia!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Dunia crimsoned, Razumikhin knitted his brows. Luzhin smiled with lofty sarcasm. "You may see for yourself, Avdotia Romanovna," he said, "whether it is possible for us to agree. I hope now that this question has been dealt with once and for all. I will withdraw in order not to hinder the pleasures of family intimacy and the discussion of secrets." He got up from his chair and took his hat. "But before I withdraw, I would like to request that in future I may be spared similar meetings and, so to say, compromises. I appeal particularly to you, my dearest Pulcheria Alexandrovna, on this subject, as my letter was addressed to you and no-one else." Pulcheria Alexandrovna was a little offended. "You seem to think we are completely under your authority, Peter Petrovich. Dunia has told you the reason she disregarded your desire, she had the best intentions. You even write as though you were giving me orders. Should we consider every desire of yours an order? Let me tell you on the contrary that you ought to show particular sensitivity and consideration for us now, because we have thrown up everything and have come here relying on you, and so we are in any case in a sense in your hands." "That is not quite true, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, especially at the moment, when news has come of Marfa Petrovna legacy, which seems indeed very timely, judging from the new tone which you are taking with me," he added sarcastically. "Judging from that remark, we may certainly assume that you were counting on our helplessness," Dunia observed irritably. "But now in any case I cannot count on it, and I am particularly unwilling to hinder your discussion of Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov secret proposals, which he has entrusted to your brother and which, I perceive, interest you greatly, perhaps even favorably." "Good heavens!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Razumikhin could not sit still on his chair. "Aren't you ashamed now, Dunia?" asked Raskolnikov. "I am ashamed, Rodia," said Dunia. "Peter Petrovich, get out," she turned to him, white with anger. Peter Petrovich had apparently not expected this type of conclusion. He had too much confidence in himself, in his power and in the helplessness of his victims. He could not believe it even now. He turned pale, and his lips quivered. "Avdotia Romanovna, if I go out of this door now, after such a dismissal, then you can be sure I will never come back. Consider what you are doing. My word is unshakeable." "What insolence!" cried Dunia, springing up from her seat. "I don't want you to come back again." "What! So that how it stands!" cried Luzhin, entirely unable to believe in the disagreement to the last, and now totally at a loss. "So that how it stands! Do you realize, Avdotia Romanovna, that I can protest?" "What right do you have to speak to her like that?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna intervened hotly. "And what can you protest about? What rights do you have? Should I give Dunia to a man like you? Go away, leave us alone! We are to blame for having agreed to the wrong course of action, and I above all . . . " "But you have bound me, Pulcheria Alexandrovna," Luzhin stormed in a frenzy, "by your promise, and now you deny it and . . . besides . . . I have been led on account of that into expenses . . . " This last complaint was so characteristic of Peter Petrovich, that Raskolnikov, pale with anger and with the effort of restraining it, could not help breaking into laughter. But Pulcheria Alexandrovna was furious. "Expenses? What expenses? Are you talking about our trunk? But the conductor brought it for nothing for you. Mercy on us, we have bound you! What are you thinking about, Peter Petrovich, it was you who bound us, hand and foot, not we!" "Enough, Mother, no more please," Avdotia Romanovna begged them. "Peter Petrovich, please go!" "I am going, but one last word," he said, quite unable to control himself. "Your mother seems to have entirely forgotten that I made up my mind to take you, so to speak, after the gossip of the town had spread all over the district in regard to your reputation. Disregarding public opinion for your sake and reinstating your reputation, I certainly might well count on a fitting return and might in fact look for gratitude on your part. And my eyes have only now been opened! I see myself that I may have acted very, very recklessly in disregarding the universal verdict ... " "Does the fellow want his head smashed?" cried Razumikhin, jumping up. "You are a mean and spiteful man!" cried Dunia. "Not a word! Not a movement!" cried Raskolnikov, holding Razumikhin back; then going close up to Luzhin, "Kindly leave the room!" he said quietly and distinctly, "and not a word more or . . . " Peter Petrovich gazed at him for some seconds with a pale face distorted by anger, then he turned and left; and rarely has any man carried away in his heart such vindictive hatred as he felt against Raskolnikov. Him, and him alone, he blamed for everything. It is worth noting that as he went downstairs he still imagined that his case was perhaps not entirely lost, and that, so far as the ladies were concerned, all might "very well indeed" be set right again. CHAPTER THREE THE FACT WAS THAT up to the last moment he had never expected such an ending; he had been overbearing to the last degree, never dreaming that two destitute and defenseless women could escape from his control. This conviction was strengthened by his vanity and conceit, a conceit which he took to the point of excess. Peter Petrovich, who had made his way up from insignificance, was morbidly given to self-admiration, had the highest opinion of his intelligence and capacities, and sometimes even gloated in solitude over his reflection in the mirror. But what he loved and valued above all was the money he had amassed by his work, and by all sorts of devices: that money made him the equal of all who had been his superiors. When he had bitterly reminded Dunia that he had decided to take her in spite of various evil reports, Peter Petrovich had spoken with perfect sincerity and had, indeed, felt genuinely indignant at such "black ingratitude." And yet, when he made Dunia his offer, he was fully aware of the groundlessness of all the gossip. The story had been contradicted in every quarter by Marfa Petrovna and was by then distrusted among all the townspeople, who were warm in Dunia defense. And he would not have denied that he knew all that at the time. Yet he still thought highly of his own resolution in lifting Dunia to his level and regarded it as something heroic. In speaking of it to Dunia, he had let out the secret feeling he cherished and admired, and he could not understand that others should fail to admire it too. He had called on Raskolnikov with the feelings of a benefactor who is about to reap the fruits of his good deeds and to hear pleasing flattery. And as he went downstairs now, he considered himself undeservedly injured and unrecognized. Dunia was simply essential to him; to do without her was unthinkable. For many years he had voluptuous dreams of marriage, but he had gone on waiting and amassing money. He brooded with relish, in profound secret, over the image of a girl virtuous, poor (she must be poor), very young, very pretty, well-born and well-educated, very timid, one who had suffered much, and was completely humbled before him, one who would all her life look on him as her savior, worship him, admire him and only him. How many scenes, how many amorous episodes he had imagined on this seductive and playful theme, when his work was over! And, behold, the dream of so many years was all but realized; the beauty and education of Avdotia Romanovna had impressed him; her helpless position had been a great allurement; in her he had found even more than he dreamed of. Here was a girl of pride, character, virtue, of education and breeding superior to his own (he felt that), and this creature would be slavishly grateful all her life for his heroic condescension, and would humble herself in the dust before him, and he would have absolute, unbounded power over her! . . . Not long before, he had also, after long reflection and hesitation, made an important change in his career and was now entering into a wider circle of business. With this change his cherished dreams of rising into a higher class of society seemed likely to be realized . . . He was, in fact, determined to try his fortune in Petersburg. He knew that women could do a very great deal. The fascination of a charming, virtuous, highly educated woman might make things easier for him, might do wonders in attracting people to him, throwing an aura round him, and now everything was in ruins! This sudden horrible rupture affected him like a clap of thunder; it was like a hideous joke, an absurdity. He had only been a tiny bit masterful, had not even time to speak out, had simply made a joke, got carried away and it had ended so seriously. And, of course, too, he did love Dunia in his own way; he already possessed her in his dreams and all at once! No! The next day, the very next day, it must all be set right, smoothed over, settled. Above all he must crush that conceited brat who was the cause of it all. With a sick feeling he could not help remembering Razumikhin too, but, he soon reassured himself on that score; as though a man like that could be put on a level with him! The person he really dreaded in earnest was Svidrigailov . . . He had, in short, a great deal to attend to . . . "No, I, I am more to blame than anyone!" said Dunia, kissing and embracing her mother. "I was tempted by his money, but I swear, Rodia, I had no idea he was such an evil man. If I had seen through him before, nothing would have tempted me! Don't blame me, Rodia!" "God has delivered us! God has delivered us!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna muttered, but half consciously, as though scarcely able to realize what had happened. They were all relieved, and in five minutes they were laughing. Only now and then Dunia turned white and frowned, remembering what had happened. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was surprised to find that she, too, was glad: she had only that morning thought rupture with Luzhin a terrible misfortune. Razumikhin was delighted. He did not yet dare to express his joy fully, but he was in a fever of excitement as though a ton-weight had fallen off his heart. Now he had the right to devote his life to them, to serve them . . . Anything might happen now! But he felt afraid to think of further possibilities and dared not let his imagination range. But Raskolnikov sat still in the same place, almost sullen and indifferent. Though he had been the most insistent on getting rid of Luzhin, he seemed now the least concerned at what had happened. Dunia could not help thinking that he was still angry with her, and Pulcheria Alexandrovna watched him timidly. "What did Svidrigailov say to you?" said Dunia, approaching him. "Yes, yes!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Raskolnikov raised his head. "He wants to make you a present of ten thousand rubles and he wishes to see you once in my presence." "See her! On no account!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "And how dare he offer her money!" Then Raskolnikov repeated (rather dryly) his conversation with Svidrigailov, omitting his account of Marfa Petrovna ghost, wishing to avoid all unnecessary talk. "How did you reply?" asked Dunia. "At first I said I would not take any message to you. Then he said that he would do his worst to obtain an interview with you without my help. He assured me that his passion for you was a passing infatuation, now he has no feeling for you. He doesn't want you to marry Luzhin . . . All in all, he was rather muddled." "How do you explain what he said, Rodia? How did he strike you?" "I have to say, I don't quite understand him. He offers you ten thousand, and yet he says he not well off. He says he going away, and in ten minutes he forgets he said it. Then he says he going to get married and has already decided on the girl . . . No doubt he has a motive, and probably a bad one. But it odd that he should be so clumsy about it if he had any designs against you . . . Of course, I refused this money on your behalf, once for all. All in all, I thought he was rather strange . . . One might almost assume he was mad. But I may be mistaken; he may just be pretending. The death of Marfa Petrovna seems to have made a great impact on him." "God rest her soul," exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "I shall always, always pray for her! Where would we be now, Dunia, without this three thousand! It as though it'd fallen from heaven! Why, Rodia, this morning we had only three rubles in our pocket and Dunia and I were just planning to pawn her watch in order to avoid borrowing from that man until he offered us help." Dunia seemed strangely impressed by Svidrigailov offer. She still stood meditating. "He has got some terrible plan," she said in a half whisper to herself, almost shuddering. Raskolnikov noticed this slightly hysterical terror. "I imagine I shall have to see him more than once again," he said to Dunia. "We will watch him! I will track him down!" cried Razumikhin, vigorously. "I won't lose sight of him. Rodia has given me permission. He said to me himself just now, ?ÄòTake care of my sister.' Will you give me permission, too, Avdotia Romanovna?" Dunia smiled and held out her hand, but the look of anxiety did not leave her face. Pulcheria Alexandrovna gazed at her timidly, but the three thousand rubles had obviously had a soothing effect on her. A quarter of an hour later, they were all engaged in a lively conversation. Even Raskolnikov listened attentively for some time, though he did not talk. Razumikhin was speaking. "And why, why should you go away?" he flowed on ecstatically. "And what would you do in a little town? The great thing is, you are all here together and you need one another you do need one another, believe me. For a time, anyway . . . Take me on as your partner and I assure you we'll plan a brilliant enterprise. Listen! I'll explain it all in detail to you, the whole project! It all flashed into my head this morning, before anything had happened . . . This is it: I have an uncle, I must introduce him to you (he a very obliging, respectable old man). This uncle has got a thousand rubles, and he lives on his pension and has no need of the money. For the last two years he has been bothering me to borrow it from him and pay him six per cent interest. I know what that means; he simply wants to help me. Last year I had no need of it, but this year I resolved to borrow it as soon as he arrived. Then you lend me another thousand of your three and we have enough for a start, so we'll go into partnership, and what are we going to do?" Then Razumikhin began to unfold his project, and he explained at length that almost all our publishers and booksellers know nothing at all about what they are selling, and for that reason they are usually bad publishers, and that any decent publications pay as a rule and gain a profit, sometimes a considerable one. Razumikhin had in fact been dreaming of setting up as a publisher. For the last two years he had been working in publishers' offices, and knew three European languages well, though he had told Raskolnikov six days before that he was "weak" in German in order to persuade him to take half his translation and half the payment for it. He had told a lie, then, and Raskolnikov knew he was lying. "Why, why should we let our chance slip when we have one of the chief means of success money of our own!" cried Razumikhin warmly. "Of course there will be a lot of work, but we will work, you, Avdotia Romanovna, I, Rodion ... You get an excellent profit on some books nowadays! And the great point of the business is that we shall know just what needs to be translated, and we shall be translating, publishing and learning all at once. I can be of use because I have experience. For nearly two years I've been busying about among the publishers, and now I know every detail of their business. You don't need to be a saint to make pots, believe me! And why, why should we let our chance slip! I know and I kept the secret two or three books which you might get a hundred rubles for, even if you just thought of translating and publishing them. I wouldn't take five hundred even for the idea of one of them. So what do you think? If I were to tell a publisher, I dare say he'd hesitate they are such blockheads! And as for the business side, printing, paper, selling, you entrust that to me, I know my way about. We'll begin in a small way and go on to a large. In any case it will get us our living and we shall get a return on our capital." Dunia eyes shone. "I like what you are saying, Dmitri Prokofich!" she said. "I know nothing about it, of course," put in Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "it may be a good idea, but again, God knows. It new and untried. Of course, we must stay here at least for a time." She looked at Rodia. "What do you think, brother?" said Dunia. "I think he got a very good idea," he answered. "Of course, it too soon to dream of a publishing firm, but we certainly might bring out five or six books and be sure of success. I know of one book myself which would be sure to go well. And as for whether he able to manage it, there no doubt about that either. He knows the business ... But we can talk it over later . . . " "Hurrah!" cried Razumikhin. "Now, wait, there an apartment here in this house, belonging to the same owner. It a special apartment; it doesn't connect to these lodgings. It furnished, moderate rent, three rooms. Suppose you take them to begin with. I'll pawn your watch tomorrow and bring you the money, and everything can be arranged then. You can all live together, and Rodia will be with you. But, Rodia, where are you off to?" "What, Rodia, you are going already?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in dismay. "At a moment like this?" cried Razumikhin. Dunia looked at her brother in wonder and disbelief. He held his cap in his hand, he was preparing to leave them. "One would think you were burying me or saying goodbye for ever," he said somewhat oddly. He tried to smile, but it did not come out as a smile. "But who knows, maybe it is the last time we shall see each other . . . " he let slip accidentally. It was what he was thinking, and somehow he uttered it aloud. "What is the matter with you?" cried his mother. "Where are you going, Rodia?" asked Dunia rather strangely. "Oh, I'm absolutely obliged to . . . " he answered vaguely, as though he were hesitating about what he was going to say. But there was a look of sharp determination in his white face. "I meant to say . . . as I was coming here . . . I meant to tell you, Mother, and you, Dunia, that it would be better for us to part for a time. I'm unwell, I'm not at peace . . . I'll come afterwards, I'll come of my own accord . . . whenever possible, I'll remember you and love you . . . Leave me, leave me alone. I decided this beforehand . . . I'm absolutely set on it. Whatever may happen to me, whether I come to ruin or not, I want to be alone. Forget me altogether, it better. Don't ask after me. When I can, I'll come of my own accord or . . . I'll send for you. Perhaps it will all come back, but now if you love me, give me up . . . or else I shall begin to hate you, I feel it . . . Goodbye!" "Good God!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Both his mother and his sister were extremely alarmed. Razumikhin was also. "Rodia, Rodia, let us be reconciled! Let us be as before!" cried his poor mother. He turned slowly to the door and slowly went out of the room. Dunia overtook him. "Rodia, what are you doing to her?" she whispered, her eyes flashing with indignation. He looked dully at her. "No matter, I will come . . . I'm coming," he muttered in an undertone, as though he was not fully conscious of what he was saying, and he went out of the room. "Wicked, heartless egoist!" cried Dunia. "He is insane, but not heartless. He is mad! Don't you see? It heartless of you to say it!" Razumikhin whispered in her ear, squeezing her hand tightly. "I shall be back immediately," he shouted to their horror-stricken mother, and he ran out of the room. Raskolnikov was waiting for him at the end of the passage. "I knew you would run after me," he said. "Go back to them be with them . . . be with them tomorrow and always . . . I . . . perhaps I shall come . . . if I can. Goodbye." And without holding out his hand he walked away. "But where are you going? What are you doing? What the matter with you? How can you go on like this?" Razumikhin muttered, at his wits' end. Raskolnikov stopped once more. "For the last time, never ask me about anything. I have nothing to tell you. Don't come to see me. Maybe I'll come here . . . Leave me, but don't leave them. Do you understand me?" It was dark in the corridor, they were standing near the lamp. For a minute they were looking at one another in silence. Razumikhin remembered that minute all his life. Raskolnikov burning and intent eyes grew more penetrating every moment, piercing into his soul, into his consciousness. Suddenly Razumikhin started. Something strange, as it were, passed between them . . . Some idea, some hint as it were, slipped, something awful, hideous, and suddenly understood on both sides . . . Razumikhin turned pale. "Do you understand now?" said Raskolnikov, his face twitching nervously. "Go back, go to them," he said suddenly, and turning quickly, he went out of the house. I will not attempt to describe how Razumikhin went back to the ladies, how he soothed them, how he protested that Rodia needed rest in his illness, protested that Rodia was sure to come, that he would come every day, that he was very, very upset, that he must not be irritated, that he, Razumikhin, would watch over him, would get him a doctor, the best doctor, a consultation . . . In fact from that evening onwards Razumikhin took his place with them as a son and as a brother. CHAPTER FOUR RASKOLNIKOV WENT STRAIGHT TO the house on the canal bank where Sonia lived. It was an old green house three floors high. He found the porter, who gave him vague directions as to where to find Kapernaumov the tailor. Having found the entrance to the dark and narrow staircase in the corner of the courtyard, he went up to the second floor and came out into a gallery that ran round the whole second storey over the yard. While he was wandering in the darkness, uncertain where to turn for Kapernaumov door, a door opened three paces from him; he mechanically took hold of it. "Who there?" a woman voice asked uneasily. "It me . . . come to see you," answered Raskolnikov and he walked into the tiny entryway. On a broken chair stood a candle in a battered copper candlestick. "It you! My goodness!" cried Sonia weakly, and she stood rooted to the spot. "Which is your room? This way?" and Raskolnikov, trying not to look at her, hurried in. A minute later Sonia, too, came in with the candle, put down the candlestick and, completely disconcerted, stood before him inexpressibly agitated and apparently frightened by his unexpected visit. The color rushed suddenly to her pale face and tears came into her eyes . . . She felt sick and ashamed and happy, too . . . Raskolnikov turned away quickly and sat on a chair by the table. He scanned the room in a rapid glance. It was a large but extremely low-ceilinged room, the only one let by the Kapernaumovs, to whose rooms a closed door led in the wall on the left. In the opposite side on the right-hand wall was another door, which was always kept locked. That led to the next apartment, which formed a separate lodging. Sonia room looked like a barn; it was a very irregular quadrangle, giving it a grotesque appearance. A wall with three windows looking out on to the canal ran on a slant so that one corner formed a very acute angle, and it was difficult to see in it without very strong light. The other corner was disproportionately obtuse. There was scarcely any furniture in the big room: in the corner on the right was a bedstead, beside it, nearest the door, was a chair. A plain, deal table covered by a blue cloth stood against the same wall, close to the door into the other apartment. Two rush-seated chairs stood by the table. On the opposite wall near the acute angle stood a small plain wooden chest of drawers looking, as it were, lost in a desert. That was all there was in the room. The yellow, scratched and shabby wall-paper was black in the corners. It must have been damp and full of fumes in the winter. There was every sign of poverty; even the bedstead had no curtain. Sonia looked in silence at her visitor, who was so attentively and unceremoniously scrutinizing her room, and at last even began to tremble with terror, as though she were standing before her judge and the arbiter of her destinies. "I am late . . . eleven, isn't it?" he asked, still not lifting his eyes. "Yes," muttered Sonia, "oh, yes, it is," she added, hastily, as though it was her means of escape. "My landlady clock has just struck . . . I heard it myself . . . " "I've come to you for the last time," Raskolnikov went on gloomily, although this was the first time. "Perhaps I may not see you again . . . " "Are you . . . going away?" "I don't know . . . tomorrow . . . " "Then you are not coming to Katerina Ivanovna tomorrow?" Sonia voice shook. "I don't know. I shall know tomorrow morning . . . Never mind that: I've come to say one word . . . " He raised his brooding eyes to her and suddenly noticed that he was sitting down while she had been standing before him. "Why are you standing? Sit down," he said in a changed voice, gentle and friendly. She sat down. He looked kindly and almost compassionately at her. "How thin you are! What a hand! Quite transparent, like a dead hand." He took her hand. Sonia smiled faintly. "I have always been like that," she said. "Even when you lived at home?" "Yes." "Of course you were," he added abruptly and the expression of his face and the sound of his voice changed again suddenly. He looked round him once more. "You rent this room from the Kapernaumovs?" "Yes . . . " "They live there, through that door?" "Yes . . . They have another room like this." "All in one room?" "Yes." "I would be afraid in your room at night," he observed gloomily. "They are very good people, very kind," answered Sonia, who still seemed bewildered, "and all the furniture, everything . . . everything is theirs. And they are very kind and the children, too, often come to see me." "They all stammer, don't they?" "Yes . . . He stammers and he lame. And his wife, too . . . It not exactly that she stammers, but she can't speak plainly. She is a very kind woman. And he used to be a house serf. And there are seven children . . . and it only the eldest one that stammers and the others are simply ill . . . but they don't stammer . . . But where did you hear about them?" she added with some surprise. "Your father told me, then. He told me all about you . . . And how you went out at six o'clock and came back at nine and how Katerina Ivanovna knelt down by your bed." Sonia was confused. "I thought I saw him today," she whispered hesitatingly. "Who?" "My father. I was walking in the street, out there at the corner, at about ten o'clock and he seemed to be walking in front. It looked just like him. I wanted to go to Katerina Ivanovna . . . " "You were walking in the streets?" "Yes," Sonia whispered abruptly, again overcome with confusion and looking down. "Katerina Ivanovna used to beat you, I daresay?" "Oh no, what are you saying? No!" Sonia looked at him almost with dismay. "You love her, then?" "Love her? Of course!" said Sonia with plaintive emphasis, and she clasped her hands in distress. "Ah, you don't . . . If you only knew! You see, she is just like a child . . . Her mind is entirely unhinged, you see . . . from sorrow. And how clever she used to be . . . how generous . . . how kind! Ah, you don't understand, you don't understand!" Sonia said this as though in despair, wringing her hands in excitement and distress. Her pale cheeks flushed, there was a look of anguish in her eyes. It was clear that she was stirred to the depths, that she was longing to speak, to champion, to express something. A sort of insatiable compassion, if you could call it that, was reflected in every feature of her face. "Beat me! How can you? Good heavens, beat me! And if she did beat me, what then? What of it? You know nothing, nothing about it ... She is so unhappy . . . ah, how unhappy! And ill . . . She is seeking righteousness, she is pure. She has such faith that there must be righteousness everywhere and she expects it . . . And if you were to torture her, she wouldn't do wrong. She doesn't see that it impossible for people to be righteous and she is angry at it. Like a child, like a child. She is good!" "And what will happen to you?" Sonia looked at him inquiringly. "They are left on your hands, you see. They were all on your hands before, though . . . And your father came to you to beg for drink. Well, how will it be now?" "I don't know," Sonia articulated mournfully. "Will they stay there?" "I don't know . . . They are in debt for the lodging, but the landlady, I hear, said today that she wanted to get rid of them, and Katerina Ivanovna says that she won't stay another minute." "How has she come to be so bold? She relies on you?" "Oh, no, don't talk like that ... We are one, we live as if we were one." Sonia was agitated again and even angry, as though a canary or some other little bird were to be angry. "And what could she do? What, what could she do?" she persisted, getting hot and excited. "And how she cried today! Her mind is unhinged, haven't you noticed it? One minute she is worrying like a child that everything will be right tomorrow, the lunch and all that . . . Then she is wringing her hands, spitting blood, weeping, and all at once she will begin knocking her head against the wall, in despair. Then she will be comforted again. She builds all her hopes on you; she says that you will help her now and that she will borrow a little money somewhere and go to her native town with me and set up a boarding school for the daughters of gentlemen and take me to superintend it, and we will begin a new splendid life. And she kisses and hugs me, comforts me, and you know she has such faith, such faith in these dreams of hers! You can't contradict her. And all day long she has been washing, cleaning, mending. She dragged the wash tub into the room with her feeble hands and sank on the bed, gasping for breath. We went this morning to a store to buy shoes for Polenka and Lida as theirs are completely worn out. Only the money we brought wasn't enough, not nearly enough. And she picked out such lovely little boots, because she has taste, you don't know. And there in the store she burst out crying in front of the assistants because she hadn't enough . . . Ah, it was sad to see her . . . " "Well, after that I can understand why you live like this," Raskolnikov said with a bitter smile. "And aren't you sorry for them? Aren't you sorry?" Sonia flew at him again. "Why, I know, you gave your last penny yourself, though you'd seen nothing of it, and if you'd seen everything, oh dear! And how often, how often I've brought her to tears! Only last week! Yes, I! Only a week before his death. I was cruel! And how often I've done it! Ah, I've been wretched at the thought of it all day!" Sonia wrung her hands as she spoke at the pain of remembering it. "You were cruel?" "Yes, I I. I went to see them," she went on, weeping, "and my father said, ?ÄòRead me something, Sonia, my head hurts, read to me, here a book.' He had a book he had got from Andrei Semionovich Lebeziatnikov, he lives there, he always used to get hold of such strange books. And I said, ?ÄòI can't stay,' because I didn't want to read, and I'd gone in mainly to show Katerina Ivanovna some collars. Lizaveta, the salesgirl, sold me some collars and cuffs cheap, pretty, new, embroidered ones. Katerina Ivanovna liked them very much; she put them on and looked at herself in the glass and was delighted with them. ?ÄòMake me a present out of them, Sonia,' she said, ?Äòplease do.' ?ÄòPlease do,' she said, she wanted them so much. And when could she wear them? They just reminded her of her old happy days. She looked at herself in the glass, admired herself, and she has no clothes at all, no things of her own, hasn't had all these years! And she never asks anyone for anything; she is proud, she'd sooner give away everything. And these she asked for, she liked them so much. And I was sorry to give them. ?ÄòWhat use are they to you, Katerina Ivanovna?' I said. I spoke like that to her, I shouldn't have said it! She gave me such a look. And she was so upset, so upset that I refused her. And it was so sad to see . . . And she wasn't upset because of the collars, but because I refused, I saw that. Ah, if only I could bring it all back, change it, take back those words! Ah, if I . . . but it nothing to you!" "Did you know Lizaveta, the salesgirl?" "Yes . . . Did you know her?" Sonia asked with some surprise. "Katerina Ivanovna is tubercular, seriously tubercular; soon she will be dead," said Raskolnikov after a pause, without answering her question. "Oh, no, no, no!" And Sonia unconsciously clutched both his hands, as though imploring for her not to be. "But it will be better if she does die." "No, not better, not better at all!" Sonia unconsciously repeated in dismay. "And the children? What can you do except take them to live with you?" "Oh, I don't know," cried Sonia, almost in despair, and she put her hands to her head. It was evident that the idea had very often occurred to her before and he had only raised it again. "And, what, if even now, while Katerina Ivanovna is alive, you get ill and are taken to the hospital, what will happen then?" he persisted pitilessly. "How can you? That can't happen!" And Sonia face was tortured with terror. "Can't happen?" Raskolnikov went on with a harsh smile. "You're not insured against it, are you? What will happen to them then? They'll be in the street, all of them, she'll cough and beg and knock her head against some wall, as she did today, and the children will cry . . . Then she will fall down, be taken to the police station and to the hospital, she will die, and the children . . . " "Oh, no . . . God will not let it be!" broke at last from Sonia overburdened body. She listened, looking imploringly at him, dumbly clasping her hands as if she were begging him for something, as though it all depended on him. Raskolnikov got up and began to walk around the room. A minute passed. Sonia was standing with her hands and her head hanging in terrible dejection. "And can't you save? Put something aside for a rainy day?" he asked, stopping suddenly before her. "No," whispered Sonia. "Of course not. Have you tried?" he added almost ironically. "Yes." "And it didn't come off! Of course not! No need to ask." And again he paced the room. Another minute passed. "You don't get money every day?" Sonia was more confused than ever and color rushed into her face again. "No," she whispered with a painful effort. "It will be the same with Polenka, no doubt," he said suddenly. "No, no! It can't be, no!" Sonia cried aloud in desperation, as though she had been stabbed. "God would not allow anything so awful!" "He lets others come to it." "No, no! God will protect her, God!" she repeated beside herself. "But, perhaps, there is no God at all," Raskolnikov answered with a sort of malignance, laughed and looked at her. Sonia face suddenly changed; a tremor passed over it. She looked at him with unutterable reproach, tried to say something, but could not speak and broke into bitter, bitter sobs, hiding her face in her hands. "You say Katerina Ivanovna mind is unhinged; your own mind is unhinged," he said after a brief silence. Five minutes passed. He still paced up and down the room in silence, not looking at her. At last he went up to her; his eyes glittered. He put his two hands on her shoulders and looked straight into her tearful face. His eyes were hard, feverish and piercing, his lips were twitching. All at once he bent down quickly and dropping to the ground, kissed her foot. Sonia drew back from him as from a madman. He certainly looked like a madman. "What are you doing to me?" she muttered, turning pale, and a sudden anguish clutched at her heart. He stood up at once. "I did not bow down to you, I bowed down to all the suffering of humanity," he said wildly and walked away to the window. "Listen," he added, turning to her a minute later. "I said just now to an insolent man that he was not worth your little finger . . . and that I did my sister an honor by making her sit with you." "Ach, you said that to them! And in her presence?" cried Sonia, frightened. "Sit down with me! An honor! But I'm . . . dishonor-able . . . Ah, why did you say that?" "It was not because of your dishonor and your sin I said that of you, but because of your great suffering. But you are a great sinner, that true," he added almost solemnly, "and your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing. Isn't that terrible? Isn't it terrible that you are living in this filth which you loathe so much, and at the same time you know yourself (you've only got to open your eyes) that you are not helping anyone by it, not saving anyone from anything! Tell me," he went on almost in a frenzy, "how this shame and degradation can exist in you side by side with other, opposite, holy feelings? It would be better, a thousand times better and wiser to leap into the water and end it all!" "But what would become of them?" Sonia asked faintly, gazing at him with eyes of anguish, but not seeming surprised at his suggestion. Raskolnikov looked strangely at her. He read it all in her face; so she must have had that thought already, perhaps many times, and earnestly she had thought out in her despair how to end it and so earnestly, that now she scarcely wondered at his suggestion. She had not even noticed the cruelty of his words. (The significance of his reproaches and his peculiar attitude to her shame she had, of course, not noticed either, and that, too, was clear to him.) But he saw how monstrously the thought of her disgraceful, shameful position was torturing her and had long tortured her. "What, what," he thought, "could have hindered her from putting an end to it?" Only then he realized what those poor little orphan children and that pitiful half-crazy Katerina Ivanovna, tubercular and knocking her head against the wall, meant for Sonia. But, nevertheless, it was clear to him again that with her character and the amount of education she had after all received, she could not in any case remain the way she was. He was still confronted by the question of how could she have remained so long in that position without going out of her mind, since she could not bring herself to jump into the water? Of course he knew that Sonia position was an exceptional case, though unhappily not unique and not infrequent, in fact; but her exceptional nature, her tinge of education, her previous life might, one would have thought, have killed her at the first step on that revolting path. What held her up surely not depravity ? All that infamy had obviously only touched her mechanically, not one drop of real depravity had penetrated to her heart; he saw that. He saw through her as she stood before him . . . "There are three ways before her," he thought, "the canal, the madhouse, or . . . at last to sink into depravity which obscures the mind and turns the heart to stone." The last idea was the most revolting, but he was a skeptic, he was young, abstract, and therefore cruel, and so he could not help believing that the last way was the most likely. "But can it be true?" he cried to himself. "Can that creature, who has still preserved the purity of her spirit, be consciously drawn at last into that sink of filth and iniquity? Can the process already have begun? Can it be that she has only been able to bear it until now, because vice has begun to be less loathsome to her? No, no, that cannot be!" he cried, as Sonia had just before. "No, what has kept her from the canal until now is the idea of sin and they, the children . . . And if she has not gone out of her mind . . . but who says she has not gone out of her mind? Is she in her senses? Can people talk, can people reason as she does? How can she sit on the edge of the abyss of loathsomeness into which she is slipping and refuse to listen when she is told about the dangers which face her? Does she expect a miracle? No doubt she does. Doesn't that all mean madness?" He stopped obstinately at that thought. In fact, he liked that explanation better than any other. He began looking more intently at her. "So you pray to God a great deal, Sonia?" he asked her. Sonia did not speak; he stood beside her waiting for an answer. "What would I be without God?" she whispered rapidly, forcibly, glancing at him with suddenly flashing eyes, and squeezing his hand. "Ah, so that is it!" he thought. "And what does God do for you?" he asked, probing her further. Sonia was silent a long while, as though she could not answer. Her weak chest kept heaving with emotion. "Be silent! Don't ask! You don't deserve!" she cried suddenly, looking sternly and angrily at him. "That it, that it," he repeated to himself. "He does everything," she whispered quickly, looking down again. "That the way out! That the explanation," he decided, scrutinizing her with eager curiosity, with a new, strange, almost morbid feeling. He gazed at that pale, thin, irregular, angular little face, those soft blue eyes, which could flash with such fire, such stern energy, that little body still shaking with indignation and anger and it all seemed to him more and more strange, almost impossible. "She a religious maniac!" he repeated to himself. There was a book lying on the chest of drawers. He had noticed it every time he paced up and down the room. Now he took it up and looked at it. It was the New Testament in the Russian translation. It was bound in leather, old and worn. "Where did you get that?" he called to her across the room. She was still standing in the same place, three steps from the table. "It was brought to me," she answered, as if unwillingly, not looking at him. "Who brought it?" "Lizaveta, I asked her for it." "Lizaveta! Strange!" he thought. Everything about Sonia seemed to him stranger and more wonderful every moment. He carried the book to the candle and began to turn over the pages. "Where is the story of Lazarus?" he asked suddenly. Sonia looked obstinately at the ground and would not answer. She was standing sideways to the table. "Where is the raising of Lazarus? Find it for me, Sonia." She stole a glance at him. "You are not looking in the right place . . . It in the fourth gospel," she whispered sternly, without looking at him. "Find it and read it to me," he said. He sat down with his elbow on the table, leaned his head on his hand and looked away sullenly, prepared to listen. "In three weeks' time they'll welcome me to the madhouse! I shall be there if I am not in a worse place," he muttered to himself. Sonia heard Raskolnikov request distrustfully and moved hesitatingly to the table. She took the book, however. "Haven't you read it?" she asked, looking up at him across the table. Her voice became sterner and sterner. "Long ago ... When I was at school. Read it!" "And haven't you heard it in church?" "I . . . haven't been. Do you often go?" "N-no," whispered Sonia. Raskolnikov smiled. "I understand . . . And you won't go to your father funeral tomorrow?" "Yes, I shall. I was at church last week, too . . . I had a requiem service." "For whom?" "For Lizaveta. She was killed with an axe." His nerves were more and more strained. His head began to go round. "Were you friends with Lizaveta?" "Yes . . . She was good . . . she used to come . . . not often . . . she couldn't . . . We used to read together and . . . talk. She will see God." The last phrase sounded strange in his ears. And here was something new again: the mysterious meetings with Lizaveta and both of them religious maniacs. "I shall be a religious maniac myself soon! It infectious!" "Read!" he cried irritably and insistently. Sonia still hesitated. Her heart was throbbing. She hardly dared to read to him. He looked almost with exasperation at the "unhappy lunatic." "What for? You don't believe? . . . " she whispered softly and as it were breathlessly. "Read! I want you to," he persisted. "You used to read to Lizaveta." Sonia opened the book and found the place. Her hands were shaking, her voice failed her. Twice she tried to begin and could not bring out the first syllable. "Now a certain man was sick named Lazarus of Bethany . . . " she forced herself at last to read, but at the third word her voice broke like an overstrained string. There was a catch in her breath. Raskolnikov saw in part why Sonia could not bring herself to read to him and the more he saw this, the more roughly and irritably he insisted on her doing so. He understood only too well how painful it was for her to betray and unveil all that was her own. He understood that these feelings really were her secret treasure, which she had kept perhaps for years, perhaps from childhood, while she lived with an unhappy father and a distracted stepmother crazed by grief, in the midst of starving children and unseemly abuse and reproaches. But at the same time he knew now and knew for certain that, although it filled her with dread and suffering, yet she had a tormenting desire to read and to read to him that he might hear it, and to read now whatever might come of it! . . . He read this in her eyes, he could see it in her intense emotion. She mastered herself, controlled the spasm in her throat and went on reading the eleventh chapter of St. John. She went on to the nineteenth verse: "And many of the Jews came to Martha and Mary to comfort them concerning their brother. "Then Martha as soon as she heard that Jesus was coming went and met Him: but Mary sat still in the house. "Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if Thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. "But I know that even now whatsoever Thou wilt ask of God, God will give it Thee . . . " Then she stopped again with a shamefaced feeling that her voice would quiver and break again. "Jesus said unto her, thy brother shall rise again. "Martha saith unto Him, I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection, at the last day. "Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in Me though he were dead, yet shall he live. "And whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die. Be lievest thou this? "She saith unto Him," (And drawing a painful breath, Sonia read distinctly and forcibly as though she were making a public confession of faith.) "Yea, Lord: I believe that Thou art the Christ, the Son of God Which should come into the world." She stopped and looked up quickly at him, but controlling herself went on reading. Raskolnikov sat without moving, his elbows on the table and his eyes turned away. She read to the thirty-second verse. "Then when Mary was come where Jesus was and saw Him, she fell down at His feet, saying unto Him, Lord if Thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. "When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping which came with her, He groaned in the spirit and was troubled, "And said, Where have ye laid him? They said unto Him, Lord, come and see. "Jesus wept. "Then said the Jews, behold how He loved him! "And some of them said, could not this Man which opened the eyes of the blind, have caused that even this man should not have died?" Raskolnikov turned and looked at her with emotion. Yes, he had known it! She was trembling in a real physical fever. He had expected it. She was getting near the story of the greatest miracle and a feeling of immense triumph came over her. Her voice rang out like a bell; triumph and joy gave it power. The lines danced before her eyes, but she knew what she was reading by heart. At the last verse "Could not this Man which opened the eyes of the blind . . . " dropping her voice she passionately reproduced the doubt, the reproach and censure of the blind disbelieving Jews, who in another moment would fall at His feet as though struck by thunder, sobbing and believing . . . "And he, he, too, is blinded and unbelieving, he, too, will hear, he, too, will believe, yes, yes! At once, now," was what she was dreaming, and she was quivering with happy anticipation. "Jesus therefore again groaning in Himself cometh to the grave. It was a cave, and a stone lay upon it. "Jesus said, Take ye away the stone. Martha, the sister of him that was dead, saith unto Him, Lord by this time he stinketh: for he hath been dead four days." She laid emphasis on the word "four." "Jesus saith unto her, Said I not unto thee that if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God? "Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead was laid. And Jesus lifted up His eyes and said, Father, I thank Thee that Thou hast heard Me. "And I know that Thou hearest Me always; but because of the people which stand by I said it, that they may believe that Thou hast sent Me. "And when He thus had spoken, He cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth. "And he that was dead came forth." (She read loudly, cold and trembling with ecstasy, as though she were seeing it before her eyes.) "Bound hand and foot with graveclothes; and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him and let him go. "Then many of the Jews which came to Mary and had seen the things which Jesus did believed in Him." She could read no more, closed the book and got up from her chair quickly. "That is all about the raising of Lazarus," she whispered severely and abruptly, and turning away she stood motionless, not daring to raise her eyes to him. She still trembled feverishly. The candle-end was flickering out in the battered candlestick, dimly lighting up in the poverty-stricken room the murderer and the harlot who had so strangely been reading together the eternal book. Five minutes or more passed. "I came to speak of something," Raskolnikov said aloud, frowning. He got up and went to Sonia. She lifted her eyes to him in silence. His face was particularly stern and there was a sort of savage determination in it. "I have abandoned my family today," he said, "my mother and sister. I am not going to see them. I've broken with them completely." "What for?" asked Sonia amazed. Her recent meeting with his mother and sister had left a great impression which she could not analyze. She heard his news almost with horror. "I have only you now," he added. "Let us go together . . . I've come to you, we are both accursed, let us go our way together!" His eyes glittered "as though he were mad," Sonia thought, in her turn. "Go where?" she asked in alarm and she involuntarily stepped back. "How do I know? I only know it the same road, I know that and nothing more. It the same goal!" She looked at him and understood nothing. She knew only that he was terribly, infinitely unhappy. "No-one of them will understand, if you tell them, but I have understood. I need you, that is why I have come to you." "I don't understand," whispered Sonia. "You'll understand later. Haven't you done the same? You, too, have overstepped your boundaries . . . have had the strength to overstep them. You have laid hands on yourself, you have destroyed a life ... your own (it all the same!). You might have lived in spirit and understanding, but you'll end in the Haymarket . . . But you won't be able to stand it, and if you remain alone you'll go out of your mind like me. You are like a mad creature already. So we must go together on the same road! Let us go!" "What for? What all this for?" said Sonia, strangely and violently agitated by his words. "What for? Because you can't remain like this, that why! You must look things straight in the face at last, and not weep like a child and cry that God won't allow it. What will happen, if you really are taken to the hospital tomorrow? She is mad and tubercular, she'll die soon, and the children? Do you mean to tell me Polenka won't come to grief? Haven't you seen children here at the street corners sent out by their mothers to beg? I've found out where those mothers live and what surroundings they live in. Children can't remain children there! At seven the child is vicious and a thief. Yet children, you know, are the image of Christ: ?Äòtheirs is the kingdom of Heaven.' He bade us honor and love them, they are the humanity of the future . . . " "What to be done, what to be done?" repeated Sonia, weeping hysterically and wringing her hands. "What to be done? Break what must be broken, once and for all, that all, and take the suffering on yourself. What, you don't understand? You'll understand later . . . Freedom and power, and above all, power! Over all trembling creation, the whole ant heap! . . . That the goal, remember that! That my farewell message. Perhaps it the last time I shall speak to you. If I don't come tomorrow, you'll hear of it all, and then remember these words. And some day later on, in years to come, you'll understand perhaps what they meant. If I come tomorrow, I'll tell you who killed Lizaveta . . . goodbye." Sonia started with terror. "Why, do you know who killed her?" she asked, chilled with horror, looking wildly at him. "I know and will tell . . . you, only you. I have chosen you. I'm not coming to you to ask forgiveness, but simply to tell you. I chose you long ago to hear this, when your father talked about you and when Lizaveta was alive, I thought of it. Goodbye, don't shake hands. Until tomorrow!" He went out. Sonia gazed at him as she would at a madman. But she herself felt as if she were insane and knew it. Her head was whirling. "My goodness, how does he know who killed Lizaveta? What did those words mean? It awful!" But at the same time the idea did not enter her head, not for a moment! "Oh, he must be terribly unhappy! ... He has abandoned his mother and sister . . . What for? What has happened? And what did he have in mind? What did he say to her? He had kissed her foot and said . . . said (yes, he had said it clearly) that he could not live without her . . . Oh, merciful heavens!" Sonia spent the whole night feverish and delirious. She jumped up from time to time, wept and wrung her hands, then sank again into feverish sleep and dreamt of Polenka, Katerina Ivanovna and Lizaveta, of reading the gospel and him . . . him with pale face, with burning eyes . . . kissing her feet, weeping. On the other side of the door on the right, which divided Sonia room from Madame Resslich apartment, was a room which long stood empty. A card was fixed on the gate and a notice stuck in the windows over the canal advertising it to let. Sonia had long been accustomed to the room being uninhabited. But all that time Mr. Svidrigailov had been standing, listening at the door of the empty room. When Raskolnikov went out he stood still, thought a moment, went on tiptoe to his own room which adjoined the empty one, brought a chair and noiselessly carried it to the door that led to Sonia room. The conversation had struck him as interesting and remarkable, and he had greatly enjoyed it so much so that he brought a chair that he might not in the future, tomorrow, for instance, have to endure the inconvenience of standing a whole hour, but would be able listen in comfort. CHAPTER FIVE WHEN NEXT MORNING AT eleven o'clock punctually Raskolnikov went into the department of the investigation of criminal causes and sent his name in to Porfiry Petrovich, he was surprised at being kept waiting so long: it was at least ten minutes before he was summoned. He had expected that they would pounce upon him. But he stood in the waiting-room, and people, who apparently had nothing to do with him, were continually passing to and fro before him. In the next room which looked like an office, several clerks were sitting writing and obviously they had no notion who or what Raskolnikov might be. He looked uneasily and suspiciously about him to see whether there was not some guard, some mysterious watch being kept on him to prevent his escape. But there was nothing of the sort: he saw only the faces of clerks absorbed in petty details, then other people, none of whom seemed to have any business with him. He could go where he liked for all they cared. The conviction grew stronger in him that if that enigmatic man yesterday, that phantom who had sprung out of the earth, had seen everything, they would not have let him stand and wait like that. And would they have waited until he chose to appear at eleven? Either the man had not yet given information, or . . . or he simply knew nothing, had seen nothing (and how could he have seen anything?) and so everything that had happened to him the day before was again a phantom exaggerated by his sick and overstrained imagination. This thought had begun to grow strong the day before, in the midst of all his alarm and despair. Thinking it all over now and preparing for a fresh conflict, he was suddenly aware that he was trembling and he felt a rush of indignation at the thought that he was trembling with fear at facing that hateful Porfiry Petrovich. What he dreaded above all was meeting that man again; he hated him with an intense, unmitigated hatred and was afraid his hatred might betray him. His indignation was such that he stopped trembling at once; he prepared to go in with a cold and arrogant bearing and vowed to himself to keep as silent as possible, to watch and listen and for once at least to control his overstrained nerves. At that moment he was summoned to Porfiry Petrovich. He found Porfiry Petrovich alone in his study. His study was a room, neither large nor small, furnished with a large writing-table that stood before a sofa which was upholstered in checked material, a bureau, a bookcase in the corner and several chairs all government furniture, made of polished yellow wood. In the furthest wall there was a closed door, beyond which there were, no doubt, other rooms. On Raskolnikov entrance Porfiry Petrovich had immediately closed the door through which he had come in and they remained alone. He met his visitor with an apparently genial and good-tempered air, and it was only after a few minutes that Raskolnikov saw signs of a certain awkwardness in him, as though he had been thrown off guard or caught in the middle of something very secret. "Ah, my friend! Here you are . . . in our domain . . . " began Porfiry, holding out both hands to him. "Come on, sit down, my boy . . . or perhaps you don't like to be called ?Äòmy friend' and ?Äòmy boy!' tout court?41 Please don't think it too informal . . . Here, on the sofa." Raskolnikov sat down, keeping his eyes fixed on him. "In our domain," the apologies for being so informal, the French phrase "tout court" were all characteristic signs. "He held out both hands to me, but he did not give me one he drew it back in time," struck him suspiciously. Both were watching each other, but when their eyes met, quick as lightning they looked away. "I brought you this paper . . . about the watch. Here it is. Is it all right or shall I copy it again?" "What? A paper? Yes, yes, don't be uneasy, it all right," Porfiry Petrovich said as though in a hurry, and after he had said it he took the paper and looked at it. "Yes, it all right. Nothing more is needed," he declared with the same rapidity and he laid the paper on the table. A minute later when he was talking of something else he took it from the table and put it on his bureau. "I believe you said yesterday you would like to question me . . . formally . . . about my acquaintance with the murdered woman?" Raskolnikov was beginning again. "Why did I put in ?ÄòI believe' " passed through his mind in a flash. "Why am I so uneasy at having put in that ?ÄòI believe'?" came in a second flash. And he suddenly felt that his uneasiness at the mere contact with Porfiry, at the first words, at the first looks, had grown in an instant to monstrous proportions, and that this was fearfully dangerous. His nerves were quivering, his emotion was increasing. "It bad, it bad! I shall say too much again." "Yes, yes, yes! There no hurry, there no hurry," muttered Porfiry Petrovich, moving to and fro about the table without any apparent aim, making dashes as it were towards the window, the bureau and the table, one moment avoiding Raskolnikov suspicious glance, then again standing still and looking him straight in the face. His fat round little figure looked very strange, like a ball rolling from one side to the other and rebounding back. "We've plenty of time. Do you smoke? Have you got your own? Here, a cigarette!" he went on, offering his visitor a cigarette. "You know I am receiving you here, but my own quarters are through there, you know, my government quarters. But I am living outside for the time being, I had to have some repairs done here. It almost finished now . . . Government quarters, you know, are a wonderful thing. Eh, what do you think?" "Yes, a wonderful thing," answered Raskolnikov, looking at him almost ironically. "A wonderful thing, a wonderful thing," repeated Porfiry Petrovich, as though he had just thought of something quite different. "Yes, a wonderful thing," he almost shouted at last, suddenly staring at Raskolnikov and stopping short two steps from him. This stupid repetition was too inept for the serious, brooding and enigmatic glance he turned upon his visitor. But this stirred Raskolnikov anger more than ever and he could not resist an ironical and somewhat incautious challenge. "Tell me, please," he asked suddenly, looking almost insolently at him and taking a kind of pleasure in his own insolence. "I believe it a sort of legal rule, a sort of legal tradition for all investigating lawyers to begin their attack from afar, with a trivial, or at least an irrelevant subject, so as to encourage, or rather, to divert the man they are cross-examining, to disarm his caution and then all at once to give him an unexpected knockdown blow with some fatal question. Isn't that so? It a sacred tradition, mentioned, I fancy, in all the manuals of the art?" "Yes, yes . . . Why, do you imagine that was why I spoke about government quarters . . . eh?" And as he said this Porfiry Petrovich screwed up his eyes and winked; a good-humored, crafty look passed over his face. The wrinkles on his forehead were smoothed out, his eyes contracted, his features broadened and he suddenly went off into a nervous prolonged laugh, shaking all over and looking Raskolnikov straight in the face. The latter forced himself to laugh, too, but when Porfiry, seeing that he was laughing, broke into such a guffaw that he turned almost crimson, Raskolnikov repulsion overcame all precaution; he left off laughing, scowled and stared with hatred at Porfiry, keeping his eyes fixed on him while his intentionally prolonged laughter lasted. There was lack of precaution on both sides, however, for Porfiry Petrovich seemed to be laughing in his visitor face and to be almost undisturbed by the annoyance with which the visitor received it. The latter fact was very significant in Raskolnikov eyes: he saw that Porfiry Petrovich had not been embarrassed just before either, but that he, Raskolnikov, had perhaps fallen into a trap; that there must be something, some motive here unknown to him; that, perhaps, everything was ready and in another moment would break upon him . . . He came straight to the point, rose from his seat and took his cap. "Porfiry Petrovich," he began resolutely, though with considerable irritation, "yesterday you expressed a desire that I should come to you for some inquiries" (he laid special stress on the word "inquiries"). "I have come and, if you have anything to ask me, ask it, and if not, allow me to withdraw. I have no time to spare . . . I have to be at the funeral of that man who was run over, of whom you . . . know also," he added, feeling angry at once at having made this addition and more irritated at his anger, "I am sick of it all, do you hear, and I have long been. It partly what made me ill. In short," he shouted, feeling that the phrase about his illness was still more out of place, "in short, kindly examine me or let me go, at once. And if you must examine me, do so properly! I will not allow you to do so otherwise, and so meanwhile, goodbye, as we have evidently nothing to keep us now." "Good heavens! What do you mean? What shall I question you about?" cackled Porfiry Petrovich with a change of tone, instantly cutting his laughter short. "Please don't disturb yourself," he began fidgeting from place to place and fussily making Raskolnikov sit down. "There no hurry, there no hurry, it all nonsense. Oh, no, I'm very glad you've come to see me at last . . . I look on you simply as a visitor. And as for my accursed laughter, please excuse it, Rodion Romanovich. Rodion Romanovich? That is your name? . . . It my nerves, you tickled me so much with your witty observation; I assure you, sometimes I shake with laughter like an India-rubber ball for half an hour at a time . . . I'm often afraid of an attack of paralysis. Do sit down. Please do, or I shall think you are angry . . . " Raskolnikov did not speak; he listened, watching him, still frowning angrily. He did sit down, but still held his cap. "I must tell you one thing about myself, my dear Rodion Romanovich," Porfiry Petrovich continued, moving about the room and again avoiding his visitor eyes. "You see, I'm a bachelor, a man of no consequence and not used to company; besides, I have nothing before me, I'm set, I'm running to seed and . . . and have you noticed, Rodion Romanovich, that in our Petersburg circles, if two clever men meet who are not intimate, but respect each other, like you and me, it takes them half an hour before they can find a subject for conversation they cannot speak, they sit opposite each other and feel awkward. Everyone has subjects of conversation, ladies for instance . . . people in high society always have their subjects of conversation, it de rigueur,42 but people of the middle sort like us, thinking people that is, are always tongue-tied and awkward. What the reason for it? Whether it is a lack of public interest, or whether it is that we are so honest we don't want to deceive one another, I don't know. What do you think? Please put down your cap, it looks as if you were just going, it makes me uncomfortable . . . I am so delighted . . . " Raskolnikov put down his cap and continued listening in silence with a serious frowning face to the vague and empty chatter of Porfiry Petrovich. "Does he really want to distract my attention with his silly babble?" "I can't offer you coffee here; but why not spend five minutes with a friend," Porfiry pattered on, "and you know all these official duties . . . please don't mind my running up and down, forgive me, my dear fellow, I am very much afraid of offending you, but exercise is absolutely indispensable for me. I'm always sitting and so glad to be moving about for five minutes . . . I suffer from my sedentary life . . . I always intend to join a gymnasium; they say that officials of all ranks, even Privy Councilors may be seen skipping gaily there; there you have it, modern science . . . yes, yes . . . But as for my duties here, inquiries and all such formalities . . . you mentioned inquiries yourself just now . . . I assure you these interrogations are sometimes more embarrassing for the interrogator than for the interrogated ... You made the observation yourself just now very aptly and wittily." (Raskolnikov had made no observation of the kind.) "People get into a muddle! A real muddle! They keep harping on the same note, like a drum! There will be a reform and we shall be called by a different name, at least, he-he-he! And as for our legal tradition, as you so wittily called it, I thoroughly agree with you. Every prisoner on trial, even the simplest peasant, knows that they begin by disarming him with irrelevant questions (as you so happily put it) and then deal him a knock-down blow, he-he-he! your beautiful expressions, my boy, he-he! So you really imagined that I meant by government quarters . . . he-he! You are truly ironic. So, come. I won't go on! Ah, by the way, yes! One word leads to another. You spoke of formality just now, apropos of the inquiry, you know. But what the use of formality? In many cases it nonsense. Sometimes you have a friendly chat and get a good deal more out of it. You can always fall back on formality, may I assure you. And, after all, what does it amount to? An examining lawyer cannot be bounded by formality at every step. The work of investigation is, so to speak, a free art in its own way, he-he-he!" Porfiry Petrovich paused for breath. He had simply babbled on uttering empty phrases, letting slip a few enigmatic words and again reverting to incoherence. He was almost running around the room, moving his fat little legs quicker and quicker, looking at the ground, with his right hand behind his back, while with his left making gestures that bore extraordinarily little relation to his words. Raskolnikov suddenly noticed that as he ran about the room he seemed twice to stop for a moment near the door, as though he were listening. "Is he expecting anything?" "You are certainly quite right about it," Porfiry began gaily, looking with extraordinary simplicity at Raskolnikov (which startled him and instantly put him on his guard), "certainly quite right in laughing so wittily at our legal forms, he-he! Some of these elaborate psychological methods are extremely ridiculous and perhaps useless, if you follow the forms too closely. Yes . . . I am talking about forms again. Well, if I recognize, or more strictly speaking, if I suspect someone or other to be a criminal in any case entrusted to me . . . you're a law student, of course, Rodion Romanovich?" "Yes, I was . . . " "Well, then it is a precedent for you for the future though don't suppose I should venture to instruct you after the articles you publish about crime! No, I simply make bold to state it by way of fact, if I took this man or that for a criminal, why, I ask, should I worry him prematurely, even if I had evidence against him? In one case I may be bound, for instance, to arrest a man at once, but another may be in quite a different position, you know, so why shouldn't I let him walk about the town a bit, he-he-he! But I see you don't quite understand, so I'll give you a clearer example. If I put him in prison too soon, I may very likely give him, so to speak, moral support, he-he! You're laughing?" Raskolnikov had no intention of laughing. He was sitting with compressed lips, his feverish eyes fixed on Porfiry Petrovich . "Yes, that is the case, with some types especially, for men are so different. You say evidence. Well, there may be evidence. But evidence, you know, can generally be taken two ways. I am an examining lawyer and a weak man, I confess it. I should like to make a proof, so to say, mathematically clear, I should like to make a chain of evidence such as twice two is four, it ought to be a direct, irrefutable proof! And if I shut him up too soon even though I might be convinced he was the man, I should very likely be depriving myself of the means of getting further evidence against him. And how? By giving him, so to speak, a definite position, I shall put him out of suspense and set his mind at rest, so that he will retreat into his shell. They say that at Sevastopol, soon after Alma,43 the clever people were in a terrible fright that the enemy would attack openly and take Sevastopol at once. But when they saw that the enemy preferred a regular siege, they were delighted, I am told and reassured, for the thing would drag on for two months at least. You're laughing, you don't believe me again? Of course, you're right, too. You're right, you're right. These are special cases, I admit. But you must observe this, my dear Rodion Romanovich, the general case, the case for which all legal forms and rules are intended, for which they are calculated and laid down in books, does not exist at all, for the reason that every case, every crime for instance, as soon as it actually occurs, at once becomes a thoroughly special case and sometimes a case unlike any that gone before. Very comic cases of that sort sometimes occur. If I leave one man completely alone, if I don't touch him and don't worry him, but let him know or at least suspect every moment that I know all about it and am watching him day and night, and if he is in continual suspicion and terror, he'll be bound to lose his head. He'll come forward of his own accord, or maybe do something which will make it as plain as twice two is four it delightful. It may be so with a simple peasant, but with one of our sort, an intelligent man cultivated on a certain side, it a dead certainty. For, my dear fellow, it a very important matter to know on what side a man is cultivated. And then there are nerves, there are nerves, you have overlooked them! Why, they are all sick, nervous and irritable! . . . And then how angry they all are! That I assure you is a regular gold mine for us. And it no anxiety to me, him running about the town free! Let him, let him walk about for a bit! I know well enough that I've caught him and that he won't escape me. Where could he escape to, he-he? Abroad, perhaps? A Pole will escape abroad, but not here, especially as I am watching and have taken measures. Will he escape into the depths of the country? But you know, peasants live there, real rude Russian peasants. A modern cultivated man would prefer prison to living with such strangers as our peasants. He-he! But that all nonsense, and on the surface. It not merely that he has nowhere to run to, he is psychologically unable to escape me, he-he! What an expression! Through a law of nature he can't escape me if he had anywhere to go. Have you seen a butterfly round a candle? That how he will keep circling and circling round me. Freedom will lose its attractions. He'll begin to brood, he'll weave a tangle round himself, he'll worry himself to death! What more he will provide me with a mathematical proof if I only give him a long enough interval . . . And he'll keep circling round me, getting nearer and nearer and then flop! He'll fly straight into my mouth and I'll swallow him, and that will be very amusing, he-he-he! You don't believe me?" Raskolnikov made no reply; he sat pale and motionless, still gazing with the same intensity into Porfiry face. "It a lesson," he thought, turning cold. "This is beyond the cat playing with a mouse, like yesterday. He can't be showing off his power with no motive . . . prompting me; he is far too clever for that ... he must have another object. What is it? It all nonsense, my friend, you are pretending, to scare me! You've no proofs and the man I saw had no real existence. You simply want to make me lose my head, to work me up beforehand and crush me. But you are wrong, you won't do it! But why give me such a hint? Is he reckoning on my shattered nerves? No, my friend, you are wrong, you won't do it even though you have some trap for me . . . let us see what you have in store for me." And he braced himself to face a terrible and unknown ordeal. At times he longed to fall on Porfiry and strangle him. This anger was what he had dreaded from the beginning. He felt that his parched lips were flecked with foam, his heart was throbbing. But he was still determined not to speak till the right moment. He realized that this was the best policy in his position, because instead of saying too much he would be irritating his enemy by his silence and provoking him into speaking too freely. Anyhow, this was what he hoped for. "No, I see you don't believe me, you think I am playing a harmless joke on you," Porfiry began again, getting more and more lively, chuckling at every instant and again pacing round the room. "And, to be sure, you're right: God has given me a figure that can awaken none but comic ideas in other people; a buffoon; but let me tell you and I repeat it, excuse an old man, my dear Rodion Romanovich, you are still a young man, in your first youth, so to speak, and so you put intellect above everything, like all young people. Playful wit and abstract arguments fascinate you and that for all the world like the old Austrian Hofkriegsrat,44 as far as I am any judge of military matters, that is: on paper they'd beaten Napoleon and taken him prisoner, and there in their study they worked it all out in the cleverest fashion, but then General Mack45 surrendered with all his army, he-he-he! I see, I see, Rodion Romanovich, you are laughing at a civilian like me, tak- ing examples out of military history! But I can't help it, it my weakness. I am fond of military science. And I'm ever so fond of reading all the military histories. I've certainly missed my proper career. I should have been in the army, I swear I should have been. I wouldn't have been a Napoleon, but I might have been a major, he-he-he! Well, I'll tell you the whole truth, my friend, about this special case, I mean: actual fact and a man temperament are weighty matters and it astonishing how they sometimes deceive the sharpest calculation! I listen to an old man am speaking seriously, Rodion Romanovich" (as he said this Porfiry Petrovich, who was scarcely thirty-five, actually seemed to have grown old; even his voice changed and he seemed to shrink together), "moreover, I'm a candid man . . . am I a candid man or not? What do you say? I think I must be: I tell you these things for nothing and don't even expect a reward for it, he-he! Well, to proceed, cleverness in my opinion is a splendid thing, it is, so to say, an adornment of nature and a consolation of life, and what tricks it can play! So that it sometimes is hard for a poor examining lawyer to know where he is, especially when he liable to be carried away by his own imagination, too, for you know he is a man after all. But the poor fellow is saved by the criminal temperament, worse luck for him! But young people carried away by their own wit don't think of that ?Äòwhen they overstep all obstacles' as you wittily and cleverly expressed it yesterday. He will lie that is, the man who is a special case, the incognito, and he will lie well, in the cleverest fashion; you might think he would triumph and enjoy the fruits of his cleverness, but at the most interesting, the most flagrant moment he will faint. Of course there may be illness and a stuffy room as well, but anyway! Anyway he given us the idea! He lied incomparably, but he didn't reckon on his temperament. That what betrays him! Another time he will be carried away by his playful wit into making fun of the man who suspects him, he will turn pale as it were on purpose to mislead, but his paleness will be too natural, too much like the real thing, again he has given us an idea! Though his questioner may be deceived at first, he will think differently next day if he is not a fool, and, of course, it is like that at every step! He puts himself forward where he is not wanted, speaks continually when he ought to keep silent, brings in all sorts of allegorical allusions, he-he! Comes and asks why didn't you take me long ago, he-he-he! And that can happen, you know, with the cleverest man, the psychologist, the literary man. The temperament reflects everything like a mirror! Gaze into it and admire what you see! But why are you so pale, Rodion Romanovich? Is the room stuffy? Shall I open the window?" "Oh, don't trouble yourself, please," cried Raskolnikov and he suddenly broke into a laugh. "Please don't trouble yourself." Porfiry stood facing him, paused a moment and suddenly he too laughed. Raskolnikov got up from the sofa, abruptly checking his hysterical laughter. "Porfiry Petrovich," he began, speaking loudly and distinctly, though his legs trembled and he could scarcely stand. "I see clearly at last that you actually suspect me of murdering that old woman and her sister Lizaveta. Let me tell you for my part that I am sick of this. If you find that you have a right to prosecute me legally, to arrest me, then prosecute me, arrest me. But I will not let myself be jeered at to my face and worried . . . " His lips trembled, his eyes glowed with fury and he could not restrain his voice. "I won't allow it!" he shouted, bringing his fist down on the table. "Do you hear that, Porfiry Petrovich? I won't allow it." "Good heavens! What does it mean?" cried Porfiry Petrovich, apparently quite frightened. "Rodion Romanovich, my dear fellow, what is the matter with you?" "I won't allow it," Raskolnikov shouted again. "Hush, my dear man! They'll hear and come in. Just think, what could we say to them?" Porfiry Petrovich whispered in horror, bringing his face close to Raskolnikov . "I won't allow it, I won't allow it," Raskolnikov repeated mechanically, but he too spoke in a sudden whisper. Porfiry turned quickly and ran to open the window. "Some fresh air! And you must have some water, my dear friend. You're ill!" and he was running to the door to call for some when he found a decanter of water in the corner. "Come, drink a little," he whispered, rushing up to him with the decanter. "It will be sure to do you good." Porfiry Petrovich alarm and sympathy were so natural that Raskolnikov was silent and began looking at him with wild curiosity. He did not take the water, however. "Rodion Romanovich, my dear friend, you'll drive yourself out of your mind, I assure you, my goodness! Have some water, do drink a little." He forced him to take the glass. Raskolnikov raised it mechanically to his lips, but set it on the table again with disgust. "Yes, you've had a little attack! You'll bring back your illness again, my dear fellow," Porfiry Petrovich cackled with friendly sympathy, though he still looked rather disconcerted. "Goodness, you must take more care of yourself! Dmitri Prokofich was here, came to see me yesterday I know, I know, I've a nasty ironic temper, but what they made of it! . . . Goodness, he came yesterday after you'd been. We dined and he talked and talked away, and I could only throw up my hands in despair! Did he come from you? But do sit down, for mercy sake, sit down!" "No, not from me, but I knew he went to you and why he went," Raskolnikov answered sharply. "You knew?" "I knew. What of it?" "Because, Rodion Romanovich, I know more than that about you; I know about everything. I know how you went to take an apartment at night when it was dark and how you rang the bell and asked about the blood, and the workmen and the porter did not know what to make of it. Yes, I understand your state of mind at that time . . . but you'll drive yourself mad like that, I swear it! You'll lose your head! You're full of generous indignation at the wrongs you've received, first from destiny, and then from the police officers, and so you rush from one thing to another to force them to speak out and make an end of it all, because you are sick of all this suspicion and foolishness. That so, isn't it? I have guessed how you feel, haven't I? Only in that way you'll lose your head and Razumikhin , too; he too good a man for such a position, you must know that. You are ill and he is good and your illness is infectious for him . . . I'll tell you about it when you are more yourself . . . But do sit down, for goodness' sake. Please rest, you look shocking, do sit down." Raskolnikov sat down; he no longer shivered, he was hot all over. In amazement he listened with strained attention to Porfiry Petrovich who still seemed frightened as he looked after him with friendly solicitude. But he did not believe a word he said, though he felt a strange inclination to believe. Porfiry unexpected words about the apartment had utterly overwhelmed him. "How can it be, he knows about the apartment then," he thought suddenly, "and he tells me so himself!" "Yes, in our legal practice there was a case which was almost exactly identical, a case of morbid psychology," Porfiry went on quickly. "A man confessed to murder and how he kept it up! It was a regular hallucination; he brought forward facts, he imposed upon every one and why? He had been partly, but only partly, unintentionally the cause of a murder and when he knew that he had given the murderers the opportunity, he sank into dejection, it got on his mind and turned his brain, he began imagining things and he persuaded himself that he was the murderer. But at last the appeal court went into it and the poor man was acquitted and given proper care. Thanks to the appeal court! Tut-tut-tut! Why, my dear friend, you may drive yourself into delirium if you have the impulse to work upon your nerves, to go ringing bells at night and asking about blood! I've studied all this morbid psychology in my practice. A man is sometimes tempted to jump out of a window or from a belfry. Just the same with bell-ringing . . . It all illness, Rodion Romanovich! You have begun to neglect your illness. You should consult an experienced doctor, what the good of that fat friend of yours? You are lightheaded! You were delirious when you did all this!" For a moment Raskolnikov felt everything turning. "Is it possible, is it possible," flashed through his mind, "that he is still lying? He can't be, he can't be." He rejected that idea, feeling to what a degree of fury it might drive him, feeling that that fury might drive him mad. "I was not delirious. I knew what I was doing," he cried, straining every faculty to penetrate Porfiry game, "I was quite myself, do you hear?" "Yes, I hear and understand. You said yesterday you were not delirious, you were particularly emphatic about it! I understand all you can tell me! A-ach! . . . Listen, Rodion Romanovich, my dear fellow. If you were actually a criminal, or were somehow mixed up in this damnable business, would you insist that you were not delirious but in full possession of your faculties? And so emphatically and persistently? Would it be possible? Absolutely impossible, the way I see it. If you had anything on your conscience, you would certainly insist that you were delirious. That so, isn't it?" There was a note of slyness in this inquiry. Raskolnikov drew back on the sofa as Porfiry bent over him and stared in silent perplexity at him. "Another thing about Razumikhin you certainly ought to have said that he came of his own accord, to have concealed your part in it! But you don't conceal it! You lay stress on the fact that he came at your instigation." Raskolnikov had not done so. A chill went down his back. "You keep telling lies," he said slowly and weakly, twisting his lips into a sickly smile, "you are trying again to show that you know all my game, that you know all I shall say beforehand," he said, conscious himself that he was not weighing his words as he should. "You want to frighten me . . . or you are just laughing at me . . . " He still stared at him as he said this and again there was a light of intense hatred in his eyes. "You keep lying," he said. "You know perfectly well that the best policy for the criminal is to tell the truth as nearly as possible . . . to conceal as little as possible. I don't believe you!" "What a cunning person you are!" Porfiry tittered, "You can't be caught out; you have a real monomania. So you don't believe me? But still you do believe me, you believe a quarter; I'll soon make you believe the whole, because I have a sincere liking for you and genuinely wish you good." Raskolnikov lips trembled. "Yes, I do," went on Porfiry, touching Raskolnikov arm genially, "you must take care of your illness. Besides, your mother and sister are here now; you must think of them. You must soothe and comfort them and you do nothing but frighten them . . . " "What has that to do with you? How do you know anything about it? What concern is it of yours? You are keeping watch on me and want to let me know it?" "Goodness! Why, I learnt it all from you yourself! You don't notice that in your excitement you tell me and others everything. From Razumikhin, too, I learnt a number of interesting details yesterday. No, you interrupted me, but I must tell you that, for all your cleverness, your suspiciousness makes you lose the common-sense view of things. To return to bell-ringing, for instance. I, an examining lawyer, have betrayed a precious thing like that, a real fact (for it is a fact worth having), and you see nothing in it! Why, if I had the slightest suspicion of you, should I have acted like that? No, I should first have disarmed your suspicions and not let you see I knew of that fact, should have diverted your attention and suddenly have dealt you a knock-down blow (your expression) saying: ?ÄòAnd what were you doing, sir, pray, at ten or nearly eleven at the murdered woman apartment and why did you ring the bell and why did you ask about blood? And why did you invite the porters to go with you to the police station, to the lieutenant?' That how I ought to have acted if I had a grain of suspicion about you. I ought to have taken your evidence in due form, searched your apartment and perhaps have arrested you, too . . . so I have no suspicion about you, since I have not done that! But you can't look at it normally and you see nothing, I say again." Raskolnikov started so that Porfiry Petrovich could not fail to perceive it. "You are lying all the time," he cried, "I don't know what you're aiming at, but you are lying. You did not speak like that just now and I cannot be mistaken!" "I am lying?" Porfiry repeated, apparently incensed, but preserving a good-humored and ironical face, as though he were not in the least concerned at Raskolnikov opinion of him. "I am lying . . . but how did I treat you just now, I, the examining lawyer? Prompting you and giving you every means for your defense; illness, I said, delirium, injury, melancholy and the police officers and all the rest of it? Ah! He-he-he! Though in fact all those psychological means of defense are not very reliable and cut both ways: illness, delirium, I don't remember that all right, but why, my friend, in your illness and in your delirium were you haunted by just those delusions and not by any others? There may have been others, eh? He-he-he!" Raskolnikov looked haughtily and contemptuously at him. "Briefly," he said loudly and imperiously, rising to his feet and in so doing pushing Porfiry back a little, "briefly, I want to know, do you acknowledge me perfectly free from suspicion or not? Tell me, Porfiry Petrovich, hurry up and tell me once and for all!" "What trouble I'm having with you!" cried Porfiry with a perfectly good-humored, sly and composed face. "And why do you want to know, why do you want to know so much, since they haven't begun to worry you? You are like a child asking for matches! And why are you so uneasy? Why do you force yourself upon us, eh? He-he-he!" "I repeat," Raskolnikov cried furiously, "that I can't put up with it!" "With what? Uncertainty?" interrupted Porfiry. "Don't jeer at me! I won't have it! I tell you I won't have it. I can't and I won't, do you hear, do you hear?" he shouted, bringing his fist down on the table again. "Hush! Hush! They'll overhear! I warn you seriously, take care of yourself. I am not joking," Porfiry whispered, but this time there was not the look of old womanish good nature and alarm in his face. Now he was peremptory, stern, frowning, and for once laying aside all mystification. But this was only for an instant. Raskolnikov, bewildered, suddenly fell into actual frenzy, but, strange to say, he again obeyed the command to speak quietly, though he was at the height of his fury. "I will not allow myself to be tortured," he whispered, instantly recognizing with hatred that he could not help obeying the command and driven to even greater fury by the thought. "Arrest me, search me, but please act in due form and don't play with me! Don't you dare!" "Don't worry about the form," Porfiry interrupted with the same sly smile, as it were, gloating with enjoyment over Raskolnikov. "I invited you to see me quite in a friendly way." "I don't want your friendship and I spit on it! Do you hear? Look I'm taking my cap and I'm going. What will you say now if you intend to arrest me?" He took up his cap and went to the door. "And won't you see my little surprise?" chuckled Porfiry, again taking him by the arm and stopping him at the door. He seemed to become more playful and good-humored which maddened Raskolnikov. "What surprise?" he asked, standing still and looking at Porfiry in alarm. "My little surprise, it sitting there behind the door, he-he-he!" (He pointed to the locked door.) "I locked him in so that he would not escape." "What is it? Where? What? . . . " Raskolnikov walked to the door and would have opened it, but it was locked. "It locked, here is the key!" And he brought a key out of his pocket. "You are lying," roared Raskolnikov without restraint, "you are lying, you damned punchinello!" and he rushed at Porfiry who retreated to the other door, not at all alarmed. "I understand it all! You are lying and mocking so I will betray myself to you . . . " "Why, you could not betray yourself any further, my dear Rodion Romanovich. You are in a passion. Don't shout, I shall call the clerks." "You are lying! Call the clerks! You knew I was ill and tried to work me into a frenzy to make me betray myself, that was your aim! Produce your facts! I understand it all. You've no evidence, you have only wretched trashy suspicions like Zametov ! You knew my character, you wanted to drive me to fury and then to knock me down with priests and deputies . . . Are you waiting for them? eh! What are you waiting for? Where are they? Produce them?" "Why deputies, my good man? What things people will imagine! And to do so would not be acting in form as you say, you don't know the business, my dear fellow . . . And there no escaping form, as you see," Porfiry muttered, listening at the door through which a noise could be heard. "Ah, they're coming," cried Raskolnikov. "You've sent for them! You expected them! Well, produce them all: your deputies, your witnesses, what you like! . . . I am ready!" But at this moment a strange incident occurred, something so unexpected that neither Raskolnikov nor Porfiry Petrovich could have imagined that their interview would come to such a conclusion. CHAPTER SIX WHEN HE REMEMBERED THE scene afterwards, this is how Raskolnikov saw it. The noise behind the door increased, and suddenly the door was opened a little. "What is it?" cried Porfiry Petrovich, annoyed. "I gave instructions . . . " For an instant there was no answer, but it was evident that there were several persons at the door, and that they were apparently pushing somebody back. "What is it?" Porfiry Petrovich repeated, uneasily. "The prisoner Nikolai has been brought," someone answered. "He is not wanted! Take him away! Let him wait! What he doing here? This is entirely out of order!" cried Porfiry, rushing to the door. "But he . . . " began the same voice, and suddenly ceased. Two seconds, not more, were spent in actual struggle, then someone gave a violent shove, and then a man, very pale, strode into the room. This man appearance was at first sight very strange. He stared straight before him, as though seeing nothing. There was a determined gleam in his eyes; at the same time there was a deathly pallor in his face, as though he were being led to the scaffold. His white lips were faintly twitching. He was dressed like a workman and was of medium height, very young, slim, with a round haircut and thin spare features. The man whom he had thrust back followed him into the room and succeeded in seizing him by the shoulder; he was a warder. Nikolai pulled his arm away. Several people crowded inquisitively into the doorway. Some of them tried to get in. All this took place almost instantaneously. "Go away, it too soon! Wait until you are sent for! ... Why have you brought him so soon?" Porfiry Petrovich muttered, extremely annoyed, as if his plans had been upset. But Nikolai suddenly knelt down. "What the matter?" cried Porfiry, surprised. "I am guilty! The sin is mine! I am the murderer," Nikolai articulated suddenly, rather breathless, but speaking fairly loudly. For ten seconds there was a silence as though everyone had been struck dumb; even the warder stepped back, mechanically retreated to the door, and stood motionless. "What is it?" cried Porfiry Petrovich, recovering from his momentary disbelief. "I am the murderer," repeated Nikolai, after a brief pause. "What . . . you . . . what . . . who did you kill?" Porfiry Petrovich was obviously bewildered. Nikolai again was silent for a moment. "Aliona Ivanovna and her sister Lizaveta Ivanovna, I . . . killed . . . with an axe. Darkness came over me," he added suddenly, and fell silent again. He remained on his knees. Porfiry Petrovich stood for some moments as though meditating, but suddenly roused himself and waved back the uninvited spectators. They instantly vanished and closed the door. Then he looked towards Raskolnikov, who was standing in the corner, staring wildly at Nikolai, and moved towards him, but stopped short, looked from Nikolai to Raskolnikov and then again at Nikolai, and seeming unable to restrain himself darted at the latter. "You're in too great a hurry," he shouted at him, almost angrily. "I didn't ask you what came over you . . . Tell me, did you kill them?" "I am the murderer . . . I want to give evidence," Nikolai pronounced. "Ah! What did you kill them with?" "An axe. I had it ready." "Ah, he is in a hurry! Alone?" Nikolai did not understand the question. "Did you do it alone?" "Yes, alone. And Mitka is not guilty and had no share in it." "Don't be in a hurry about Mitka! A-ah! How was it you ran downstairs like that at the time? The porters met you both!" "It was to put them off the scent . . . I ran after Mitka," Nikolai replied hurriedly, as though he had prepared the answer. "I knew it!" cried Porfiry, with vexation. "It not his own tale he is telling," he muttered as though to himself, and suddenly his eyes rested on Raskolnikov again. He was apparently so taken up with Nikolai that for a moment he had forgotten Raskolnikov. He was a little taken aback. "My dear Rodion Romanovich, excuse me!" he flew up to him, "this shouldn't have happened; I'm afraid you must go . . . it'll be no good if you stay . . . I will . . . you see, what a surprise! . . . Goodbye!" And taking him by the arm, he showed him to the door. "I suppose you didn't expect it?" said Raskolnikov who, though he had not yet fully grasped the situation, had regained his courage. "You did not expect it either, my friend. See how your hand is trembling! He-he!" "You're trembling, too, Porfiry Petrovich!" "Yes, I am; I didn't expect it." They were already at the door; Porfiry was impatient for Raskolnikov to be gone. "And your little surprise, aren't you going to show it to me?" Raskolnikov said, sarcastically. "Why, his teeth are chattering as he asks, he-he! You have a real sense of irony! Come on, until we meet!" "I believe we can say goodbye!" "That in God hands," muttered Porfiry, with an unnatural smile. As he walked through the office, Raskolnikov noticed that many people were looking at him. Among them he saw the two porters from the house, whom he had invited that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovich behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath. "One word, Rodion Romanovich; as for the rest of it, it in God hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you . . . so we shall meet again, shan't we?" And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile. "Shan't we?" he added again. He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out. "You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovich, for what has just passed . . . I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had regained his courage to such an extent that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. "Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too . . . I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it God will, we may see a great deal of one another." "And will get to know each other properly?" added Raskolnikov. "Yes; know each other properly," assented Porfiry Petrovich, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?" "To a funeral." "Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well." "I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I would like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one." "Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovich had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. "How you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolai psychologically, in that way of yours, until he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. ?ÄòYou are lying,' you'll say. ?ÄòYou are not the murderer! You can't be! It not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it a comical business!" "He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolai just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?" "How could I help noticing it!" "He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side . . . he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol,46 among the writers." "Yes, of Gogol." "Yes, of Gogol . . . I shall look forward to meeting you." "So shall I." Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that when he got home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolai; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing something beyond his understanding. But Nikolai confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Until then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent. But how imminent? His position gradually became clear to him. Remembering, sketchily, the main outlines of his recent scene with Porfiry, he could not help shuddering again with horror. Of course, he did not yet know all Porfiry aims, he could not see into all his calculations. But he had already partly shown his hand, and no-one knew better than Raskolnikov how terrible Porfiry "lead" had been for him. A little more and he might have given himself away completely, circumstantially. Knowing his nervous temperament and seeing through him from the first, Porfiry, though playing a bold game, was bound to win. There no denying that Raskolnikov had compromised himself seriously, but no facts had come to light as yet; there was nothing positive. But was he taking a true view of the position? Wasn't he mistaken? What had Porfiry been trying to get at? Had he really some surprise prepared for him? And what was it? Had he really been expecting something or not? How would they have parted if it had not been for the unexpected appearance of Nikolai? Porfiry had shown almost all his cards of course, he had risked something in showing them and if he had really had anything up his sleeve (Raskolnikov reflected), he would have shown that, too. What was that "surprise"? Was it a joke? Had it meant anything? Could it have concealed anything like a fact, a piece of positive evidence? His yesterday visitor? What had become of him? Where was he today? If Porfiry really had any evidence, it must be connected with him . . . He sat on the sofa with his elbows on his knees and his face hidden in his hands. He was still shivering nervously. At last he got up, took his cap, thought a minute, and went to the door. He had a sort of presentiment that for today, at least, he might consider himself out of danger. He had a sudden sense almost of joy; he wanted to hurry to Katerina Ivanovna . He would be too late for the funeral, of course, but he would be in time for the memorial dinner, and there at once he would see Sonia. He stood still, thought a moment, and a suffering smile came for a moment on to his lips. "Today! Today," he repeated to himself. "Yes, today! So it must be ... " But as he was about to open the door, it began opening of itself. He started and moved back. The door opened gently and slowly, and suddenly a figure appeared yesterday visitor from under the ground. The man stood in the doorway, looked at Raskolnikov without speaking, and took a step forward into the room. He was exactly the same as yesterday; the same figure, the same dress, but there was a great change in his face; he looked dejected and sighed deeply. If he had only put his hand up to his cheek and leaned his head on one side he would have looked exactly like a peasant woman. "What do you want?" asked Raskolnikov, numb with terror. The man was still silent, but suddenly he bowed down almost to the ground, touching it with his finger. "What is it?" cried Raskolnikov. "I have sinned," the man articulated softly. "I have had evil thoughts." They looked at one another. "I was worried. When you came maybe you were drunk and told the porters to go to the police station and asked about the blood, I was worried that they let you go and thought you were drunk. I was so worried I lost my sleep. And remembering the address we came here yesterday and asked for you . . . " "Who came?" Raskolnikov interrupted, instantly beginning to remember. "I did, I've wronged you." "Then you came from that house?" "I was standing at the gate with them . . . don't you remember? We have carried on our trade in that house for many years. We cure and prepare hides, we take work home . . . most of all I was worried . . . " And the whole scene of the day before yesterday in the gateway came clearly into Raskolnikov mind; he recalled that there had been several people there besides the porters, women among them. He remembered one voice had suggested taking him straight to the police station. He could not recall the face of the speaker, and even now he did not recognize it, but he remembered that he had turned round and made him some answer . . . So this was the solution of yesterday horror. The most awful thought was that he had been actually almost lost, had almost done for himself on account of such a trivial circumstance. So this man could tell nothing except the fact that he asked about the apartment and the blood stains. So Porfiry, too, had nothing but that delirium, no facts but this psychology which cuts both ways, nothing positive. So if no more facts come to light (and they must not, they must not!) then . . . then what can they do to him? How can they convict him, even if they arrest him? And Porfiry then had only just heard about the apartment and had not known about it before. "Was it you who told Porfiry . . . that I'd been there?" he cried, struck by a sudden idea. "What Porfiry?" "The head of the detective department?" "Yes. The porters did not go there, but I went." "Today?" "I got there two minutes before you. And I heard, I heard it all, how he worried you." "Where? What? When?" "In the next room. I was sitting there all the time." "What? So you were the surprise? But how could that happen? It unbelievable!" "I saw that the porters did not want to do what I said," began the man; "because it too late, they said, and maybe he'll be angry that we didn't come at the time. I was anxious and I lost sleep over it, so I began making inquiries. And when I found out yesterday where to go, I went there today. The first time I went he wasn't there; when I came an hour later he couldn't see me. So I went a third time, and they showed me in. I told him everything, just as it happened, and he started skipping around the room and punching himself on the chest. ?ÄòWhy did you horrors not tell me? If I'd known about it I should have arrested him!' The he ran out, called somebody and began talking to him in the corner, then he turned to me, reprimanding and questioning me. He criticized me a great deal; and I told him everything, and I told him that you didn't dare to say a word in answer to me yesterday and that you didn't recognize me. And he started running around again and kept on hitting himself on the chest, and getting angry and running around, and when they announced that you were here he told me to go into the next room. ?ÄòSit there for a bit,' he said. ?ÄòDon't move, whatever you hear.' And he put a chair there for me and locked me in. ?ÄòI may call you,' he said, ?Äòper haps.' And when Nikolai had been brought he let me out as soon as you were gone. ?ÄòI'll send for you and question you again,' he said." "And did he question Nikolai while you were there?" "He got rid of me like he got rid of you, before he spoke to Nikolai." The man stood still, and again suddenly bowed down, touching the ground with his finger. "Forgive me for my evil thoughts, and my slander." "May God forgive you," answered Raskolnikov. And as he said this, the man bowed down again, but not to the ground, turned slowly and went out of the room. "It all cuts both ways, now it all cuts both ways," repeated Raskolnikov, and he went out more confident than ever. "Now we'll make a fight of it," he said, with a malicious smile, as he went down the stairs. His malice was aimed at himself; with shame and contempt he recalled his "cowardice." PART FIVE CHAPTER ONE THE MORNING THAT FOLLOWED the fateful interview with Dunia and her mother brought sobering influences to bear on Peter Petrovich. Intensely unpleasant as it was, he was forced little by little to accept as an unshakeable fact what had seemed to him only the day before to be fantastic and incredible. The black snake of wounded vanity had been gnawing at his heart all night. When he got out of bed, Peter Petrovich immediately looked in the looking-glass. He was afraid that he had jaundice. However his health seemed unimpaired so far, and looking at his noble, clear-skinned face which had recently grown fattish, Peter Petrovich for an instant was positively comforted in the conviction that he would find another bride, and perhaps even a better one. But coming back to the sense of his present position, he turned aside and spat vigorously, which provoked a sarcastic smile in Andrei Semionovich Lebeziatnikov, the young friend with whom he was staying. Peter Petrovich noticed that smile, and held it against his young friend at once. He had recently held many things against him. His anger was doubled when he reflected that he ought not to have told Andrei Semionovich about the result of yesterday interview. That was the second mistake he had made in his temper, through impulsiveness and irritability . . . Moreover, all morning one unpleasantness followed another. He even found a hitch awaiting him in his legal case in the Senate. He was particularly irritated by the owner of the apartment which had been taken due to his approaching marriage and was being redecorated at his own expense; the owner, a rich German tradesman, would not entertain the idea of breaking the contract which had just been signed and insisted on the full forfeit money, though Peter Petrovich would be giving him back the apartment practically redecorated. In the same way the upholsterers refused to return a single ruble of the installment paid for the furniture purchased but not yet removed to the apartment. "Am I to get married simply for the sake of the furniture?" Peter Petrovich ground his teeth and at the same time once more he had a gleam of desperate hope. "Can it all really be over so irrevocably? Is it no use to make another effort?" The thought of Dunia sent a voluptuous pang through his heart. He went through agonies at that moment, and if it had been possible to kill Raskolnikov instantly by wishing it, Peter Petrovich would promptly have uttered the wish. "It was my mistake, too, not to have given them money," he thought, as he returned dejectedly to Lebeziatnikov room, "and why on earth was I such a Jew? It was false economy! I meant to keep them without a penny so that they would turn to me as their providence, and look at them! Foo! If I'd spent about fifteen hundred rubles on them for the trunk and presents, on knick-knacks, dressing-cases, jewelry, materials, and all that sort of trash from Knopp 47 and the English store, my position would have been better and . . . stronger! They could not have refused me so easily! They are the sort of people that would feel bound to return money and presents if they broke it off; and they would find it hard to do it! And their consciences would prick them: how can we dismiss a man who has hitherto been so generous and delicate? . . . Hm! I've made a blunder." And grinding his teeth again, Peter Petrovich called himself a fool but not aloud, of course. He returned home, twice as irritated and angry as before. The preparations for the funeral dinner at Katerina Ivanovna aroused his curiosity as he passed. He had heard about it the day before; he imagined, in fact, that he had been invited, but absorbed in his own worries he had paid no attention. When he asked Madame Lippewechsel, who was busy laying the table while Katerina Ivanovna was away at the cemetery, he heard that the entertainment was going to be substantial, that all the tenants had been invited, some of whom had not known the dead man, that even Andrei Semionovich Lebeziatnikov was invited despite his previous quarrel with Katerina Ivanovna, that he, Peter Petrovich, was not only invited, but was eagerly expected as he was the most important of the tenants. Amalia Ivanovna herself had been invited with great ceremony despite all the recent unpleasantness, and so she was very busy with preparations and was taking real pleasure in them; she was moreover dressed up to the nines, in new black silk, and she was proud of it. All this gave Peter Petrovich an idea and he went into his room, or rather Lebeziatnikov , somewhat thoughtful. He had learnt that Raskolnikov was to be one of the guests. Andrei Semionovich had been at home all morning. Peter Petrovich attitude to this gentleman was strange, though perhaps natural. Peter Petrovich had despised and hated him from the day he came to stay with him and at the same time he seemed somewhat afraid of him. He had not come to stay with him on his arrival in Petersburg solely due to his own tightfistedness, though that had been perhaps his chief object. He had heard that Andrei Semionovich, who had once been his prot?(c)g?(c), was a leading young progressive who was playing an important part in certain interesting circles, the doings of which were a legend in the provinces. It had impressed Peter Petrovich. These powerful, omniscient circles, which despised everyone and showed everyone up for what they really were, had long been for him a peculiar but wholly vague cause for concern. He had not, of course, been able to form even an approximate notion of what they meant. He, like everyone, had heard that there were, especially in Petersburg, progressives of some sort, nihilists and so on, and, like many people, he exaggerated and distorted the significance of those words to an absurd degree. What for many years past he had feared more than anything was being shown up for what he really was and this was the chief ground for his continual uneasiness at the thought of transferring his business to Petersburg. He was afraid of this in the same way as little children are sometimes panic-stricken. Some years previously, when he was just embarking on his own career, he had come upon two cases in which rather important people in the province, patrons of his, had been cruelly shown up. One instance had ended in great scandal for the person attacked and the other had very nearly ended in serious trouble. For this reason Peter Petrovich intended to go into the subject as soon as he reached Petersburg and, if necessary, to anticipate contingencies by seeking the favor of "our younger generation." He relied on Andrei Semionovich for this and before his visit to Raskolnikov he had succeeded in picking up some current phrases. He soon discovered that Andrei Semionovich was a commonplace simpleton, but that by no means reassured Peter Petrovich. Even if he had been certain that all the progressives were fools like him, it would not have allayed his uneasiness. All the doctrines, the ideas, the systems with which Andrei Semionovich pestered him had no interest for him. He had his own object he simply wanted to find out at once what was happening here. Did these people have any power or not? Had he anything to fear from them? Would they expose any enterprise of his? And what precisely was now the object of their attacks? Could he somehow make up to them and get round them if they really were powerful? Was this the thing to do or not? Couldn't he gain something through them? In fact hundreds of questions presented themselves. Andrei Semionovich was an anemic, scrofulous little man, with strangely flaxen mutton-chop whiskers of which he was very proud. He was a clerk and had almost always something wrong with his eyes. He was rather soft-hearted, but self-confident and sometimes extremely conceited in speech, which had an absurd effect, incongruous with his little figure. He was one of the tenants whom Amalia Ivanovna most respected because he did not get drunk and paid regularly for his lodgings. Andrei Semionovich was in fact rather stupid; he attached himself to the cause of progress and "our younger generation" out of his own enthusiasm. He was one of the numerous and varied legion of dullards, of half-animate abortions, conceited, half-educated idiots, who attach themselves to the idea most in fashion only to vulgarize it and who caricature every cause they serve, however sincerely. Though Lebeziatnikov was so good-natured, he, too, was beginning to dislike Peter Petrovich. This happened on both sides unconsciously. However simple Andrei Semionovich might be, he began to see that Peter Petrovich was duping him and secretly despising him, and that "he was not the right sort of man." He had tried expounding to him the system of Fourier and the Darwinian theory, but of late Peter Petrovich began to listen too sarcastically and even to be rude. The fact was he had begun instinctively to guess that Lebeziatnikov was not merely a commonplace simpleton, but perhaps a liar too, and that he had no connections of any consequence even in his own circle, but had simply picked things up third-hand; and that very likely he did not even know much about his own work of propaganda, for he was in too great a muddle. A fine person he would be to show anyone up! It must be noted, by the way, that Peter Petrovich had during those ten days eagerly accepted the strangest praise from Andrei Semionovich; he had not protested, for instance, when Andrei Semionovich congratulated him for being ready to contribute to the establishment of the new "commune," or to abstain from christening his future children, or to acquiesce if Dunia were to take a lover a month after marriage, and so on. Peter Petrovich took such pleasure in hearing his praises sung that he did not even look down upon such virtues when they were attributed to him. That morning, Peter Petrovich happened to have cashed some five per cent bonds and now he sat down to the table and counted up bundles of notes. Andrei Semionovich, who hardly ever had any money, walked around the room, pretending to himself that he could look at all those bank notes with indifference and even contempt. Nothing would have convinced Peter Petrovich that Andrei Semionovich could really look on the money unmoved, and the latter kept thinking bitterly that Peter Petrovich was capable of entertaining such an idea about him and was, perhaps, glad to get a chance tease his young friend by reminding him of his inferiority and the great difference between them. He found him incredibly inattentive and irritable, though he, Andrei Semionovich, began enlarging on his favorite subject, the foundation of a new special "commune." The brief remarks that dropped from Peter Petrovich between the clicking of the beads on the abacus betrayed an impolite and unmistakable irony. But the "humane" Andrei Semionovich ascribed Peter Petrovich ill-humor to his recent breach with Dunia and he was burning with impatience to talk about it. He had something progressive to say on the subject which might comfort his eminent friend and "could not fail" to promote his development. "There is some sort of entertainment being prepared at that . . . at the widow , isn't there?" Peter Petrovich asked suddenly, interrupting Andrei Semionovich at the most interesting passage. "Do you really not know? But I was telling you last night what I think about all those ceremonies. And she invited you too, I heard. You were talking to her yesterday . . . " "I would never have expected that foolish beggar to have spent on this feast all the money she got from that other fool, Raskolnikov. I was surprised just now when I went to take a look at the preparations there the wines! Several people have been invited. It beyond anything!" continued Peter Petrovich, who seemed to have some purpose in pursuing the conversation. "What? Did you say I was invited as well? When was that? I don't remember. But I shan't go. Why should I? I only said a word to her in passing yesterday about the possibility of her obtaining a year salary as a destitute widow of a government clerk. I suppose that why she invited me, isn't it? He-he-he!" "I don't intend to go either," said Lebeziatnikov. "I should think not, after giving her a thrashing! You might well hesitate, he-he!" "Who thrashed? Whom?" cried Lebeziatnikov, flustered and blushing. "You thrashed Katerina Ivanovna a month ago. I heard so yesterday . . . so that what your convictions amount to . . . and the question of women, too, wasn't an entirely sound one, he-he-he!" and Peter Petrovich, as though he were comforted, went back to clicking his beads. "It all slander and nonsense!" cried Lebeziatnikov, who was always afraid of references to the subject. "It was not like that at all, it was completely different. You've heard it wrong; it a false rumor. I was simply defending myself. She rushed at me first with her nails, she pulled out all my whiskers . . . It permissible for anyone, I should hope, to defend themselves; I never allow anyone to use violence against me on principle, it an act of despotism. What should I have done? I just pushed her back." "He-he-he!" Luzhin went on laughing maliciously. "You keep on like that because you are in a bad mood yourself . . . But that nonsense and it has nothing, nothing whatsoever to do with the question of women! You don't understand; I used to think, in fact, that if women are equal to men in all respects, even in strength (as is maintained now), there ought to be equality in that, too. Of course, I reflected afterwards that a question like that really shouldn't arise, because there shouldn't be any fighting and, in the future society, fighting is unthinkable . . . and that it would be strange to try to find a principle of equality in fighting. I am not so stupid . . . though, of course, there is fighting . . . there won't be later, but at the moment there is . . . damn it! How muddled I get with you! That not why I'm not going. I'm not going on principle, in order not to take part in the revolting convention of memorial dinners, that why! Though, of course, I might go to laugh at it . . . I am sorry there won't be any priests at it. I would certainly go if there were." "Then you would sit down at another man table and insult it and those who invited you. Eh?" "Certainly not insult, but protest. I would do it with a good purpose in mind. I might indirectly assist the cause of enlightenment and propaganda. It every man duty to work for enlightenment and propaganda and the more harshly, perhaps, the better. I might drop a seed, an idea . . . And something might grow up from that seed. How should I be insulting them? They might be offended at first, but afterwards they'd see I'd done them a service. You know, Terebyeva (who is in the commune now) was blamed because when she left her family and . . . devoted . . . herself, she wrote to her father and mother that she wouldn't go on living conventionally and was embarking on a free marriage and people said that it was too harsh, that she might have spared them and written more kindly. I think that all nonsense; there no need to be soft. On the contrary what needed is protest. Varents had been married seven years, she abandoned her two children, she told her husband straight out in a letter: ?ÄòI have realized that I cannot be happy with you. I can never forgive you that you have deceived me by concealing from me that there is another means of organizing society through communes. I have only recently learned this from a very magnanimous man to whom I have given myself and with whom I am establishing a commune. I am speaking to you frankly because I consider it dishonest to deceive you. Do as you think best. Do not hope to win me back you will be too late. I hope you will be happy.' That how letters like that ought to be written!" "Is that Terebyeva the one you said had made a third free marriage?" "No, it only the second, really! But what if it were the fourth, what if it were the fifteenth, that all nonsense! And if ever I regretted the death of my father and mother, it is now, and I sometimes think if my parents were living what a protest I would have aimed at them! I would have done something on purpose . . . I would have shown them! I would have astonished them! I am really sorry there is no-one!" "To surprise! He-he! Well, be that as it may," Peter Petrovich interrupted, "but tell me this; do you know the dead man daughter, the delicate-looking little thing? It true what they say about her, isn't it?" "What of it? I think, that is, it is my own personal conviction, that this is the normal condition of women. Why not? I mean, let us distinguish. In our present society, it is not altogether normal, because it is compulsory, but in the future society, it will be perfectly normal, because it will be voluntary. Even as it is, she was quite right: she was suffering and that was her asset, so to speak, her capital which she had a perfect right to dispose of. Of course, in the future society, there will be no need of assets, but her part will have another significance, which will be rational and in accordance with her environment. As for Sofia Semionovna personally, I regard her action as a vigorous protest against the organization of society, and I respect her deeply for it; I rejoice, in fact, when I look at her!" "I was told that you got her turned out of these rooms." Lebeziatnikov was enraged. "That another slander," he yelled. "That not true at all! That was all Katerina Ivanovna invention, she didn't understand! And I never flirted with Sofia Semionovna! I was simply developing her, entirely disinterestedly, trying to rouse her to protest . . . All I wanted was her protest and Sofia Semionovna could not have remained here anyway!" "Have you asked her to join your commune?" "You keep on laughing and very inappropriately, may I add. You don't understand! There is no such role in a commune. The commune is established so that there should be no such roles. In a commune, such roles are essentially transformed and what is stupid here is sensible there, what, under present conditions, is unnatural becomes perfectly natural in the commune. It all depends on the environment. It all the environment and man himself is nothing. And I am on good terms with Sofia Semionovna to this day, which is a proof that she never regarded me as having wronged her. I am trying now to attract her to the commune, but on a completely different level. What are you laughing at? We are trying to establish a commune of our own, a special one, on a broader basis. We have gone further in our convictions. We reject more! And meanwhile I'm still developing Sofia Semionovna. She has a beautiful, beautiful character!" "And you take advantage of her fine character, eh? He-he!" "No, no! Oh, no! On the contrary." "Oh, on the contrary! He-he-he! A strange thing to say!" "Believe me! Why should I disguise it? In fact, I feel strange myself that she is so timid, chaste and modern with me!" "And you, of course, are developing her . . . he-he! Trying to prove to her that all that modesty is nonsense?" "Not at all, not at all! How coarsely, how stupidly excuse me for saying so you misunderstand the word ?Äòdevelopment'! Goodness, how . . . crude you still are! We are striving for the freedom of women and you have only one idea in your head . . . Setting aside the general question of chastity and feminine modesty as useless in themselves and indeed prejudicial, I fully accept her chastity with me, because that for her to decide. Of course if she were to tell me herself that she wanted me, I should consider myself very lucky, because I like the girl very much; but as it is, no-one has ever treated her more courteously than I, with more respect for her dignity . . . I wait in hope, that all!" "You had much better give her some kind of present. I bet you never thought of that." "You don't understand, I've told you already! Of course, she is in just that kind of a position, but that another question. Another question entirely! You simply despise her. Seeing a fact which, you mistakenly consider, is worthy of contempt, you refuse to take a humane view of a fellow creature. You don't know what a character she is! I am only sorry that recently she has completely given up reading and borrowing books. I used to lend them to her. I am sorry, too, that with all the energy and resolution in protesting which she has already shown once she has too little self-reliance, too little independence, so to speak, to break free from certain prejudices and certain foolish ideas. Yet she thoroughly understands some questions, for instance about kissing hands, that is, that it an insult to a woman for a man to kiss her hand, because it a sign of inequality. We had a debate about it and I described it to her. She listened attentively to an account of the workers' associations in France, too. Now I am explaining the question of coming into the room in the future society." "And what that, pray?" "We had a debate recently about the question: Has any member of the commune the right to enter another member room, be they a man or a woman, at any time . . . and we decided that they have!" "It might be at an inconvenient moment, he-he!" Lebeziatnikov was furious. "You are always thinking of something unpleasant," he cried with aversion. "Pah! How irritated I am that when I was expounding our system, I referred prematurely to the question of personal privacy! It always a stumbling-block to people like you, they ridicule it before they understand it. And how proud they are of it, too! Pah! I've often maintained that that question should not be approached by a novice until he has firm faith in the system. And tell me, please, what do you find so shameful even about cesspools? I would be the first to be ready to clean out any cesspool you like. And it not a question of self-sacrifice, it simply work, honorable, useful work which is as good as any other and much better than the work of a Raphael and a Pushkin, because it is more useful." "And more honorable, more honorable, he-he-he!" "What do you mean by ?Äòmore honorable'? I don't understand such expressions to describe human activity. ?ÄòMore honorable,' ?Äòno bler' all those are old-fashioned prejudices which I reject. Everything which is of use to mankind is honorable. I only understand one word: useful! You can snigger as much as you like, but that the truth!" Peter Petrovich laughed heartily. He had finished counting the money and was putting it away. But some of the notes he left on the table. The "cesspool question" had already been a subject of dispute between them. What was absurd was that it made Lebeziatnikov really angry, while it amused Luzhin and at that moment he particularly wanted to anger his young friend. "It your bad luck yesterday that has made you so bad-tempered and annoying," blurted out Lebeziatnikov, who in spite of his "independence" and his "protests" did not attempt to oppose Peter Petrovich and still behaved to him with some of the respect which had been habitual to him in earlier years. "You'd better tell me this," Peter Petrovich interrupted with haughty displeasure, "can you . . . or, rather, are you really friendly enough with that young lady to ask her to step in here for a minute? I think they've all come back from the cemetery . . . I hear the sound of steps . . . I want to see her, that young lady." "What for?" Lebeziatnikov asked with surprise. "Oh, I want to. I am leaving here today or tomorrow and therefore I wanted to speak to her about . . . But you can stay while we talk. It would be better if you did, in fact. There no knowing what you might imagine." "I shan't imagine anything. I only asked and, if you've anything to say to her, nothing would be easier than to call her in. I'll leave immediately and you can be sure I won't be in your way." Five minutes later Lebeziatnikov came in with Sonia. She came in very surprised and overwhelmed with shyness as usual. She was always shy in such circumstances and was always afraid of new people; she had been as a child and was even more so now . . . Peter Petrovich met her "politely and affably," but with a certain shade of bantering informality which in his opinion was suitable for a man of his respectability and weight in dealing with a creature as young and as interesting as she. He swiftly "reassured" her and made her sit down facing him at the table. Sonia sat down, looked around her at Lebeziatnikov, at the notes lying on the table and then again at Peter Petrovich and her eyes remained riveted to his face. Lebeziatnikov was moving towards the door. Peter Petrovich indicated to Sonia that she should remain seated and stopped Lebeziatnikov. "Is Raskolnikov in there? Has he come?" he asked him in a whisper. "Raskolnikov? Yes. Why? Yes, he is there. I saw him just come in . . . Why?" "Well, I particularly beg you to remain here with us and not to leave me alone with this . . . young woman. I only want a few words with her, but God knows what they will make of it. I wouldn't like Raskolnikov to repeat anything . . . You understand what I mean?" "I understand!" Lebeziatnikov saw the point. "Yes, you are right ... Of course, I am convinced personally that you have no reason to be uneasy, but . . . still, you are right. I'll definitely stay. I'll stand here at the window and get out of your way . . . I think you are right . . . " Peter Petrovich returned to the sofa, sat down opposite Sonia, looked attentively at her and made his face look extremely dignified, even severe, as if to say, "Don't you make any mistake, my girl." Sonia was overwhelmed with embarrassment. "Firstly, Sofia Semionovna, will you send my excuses to your dear mother . . . That right? Katerina Ivanovna is like a mother to you, isn't she?" Peter Petrovich began with great dignity, though affably. It was evident that his intentions were friendly. "Quite right, yes; like a mother," Sonia answered, timidly and hurriedly. "Then will you make my apologies to her? Due to inevitable circumstances I am forced to be absent and shall not be at the dinner, despite your mother kind invitation." "Yes . . . I'll tell her . . . at once." And Sonia hastily jumped up from her seat. "Wait, that not all," Peter Petrovich detained her, smiling at her simplicity and ignorance of good manners, "and you know me little, my dear Sofia Semionovna, if you think I would have bothered to trouble a person like you about a matter of such little importance which affects only myself. I have another purpose." Sonia sat down hurriedly. Her eyes rested again for an instant on the gray and rainbow-colored notes that remained on the table, but she quickly looked away and fixed her eyes on Peter Petrovich. She felt that it was horribly impolite, especially for her, to look at another person money. She stared at the gold eyeglass which Peter Petrovich held in his left hand and at the massive and extremely handsome ring with a yellow stone on his middle finger. But suddenly she looked away and, not knowing where to turn, ended up staring Peter Petrovich straight in the face again. After a pause of even greater dignity he continued. "I happened yesterday in passing to exchange a couple of words with Katerina Ivanovna, poor woman. It was enough to enable me to realize that she is in a preternatural position, if it can expressed like that." "Yes . . . preternatural . . . " Sonia hurriedly agreed. "Or it would be simpler and more comprehensible to say, ill." "Yes, simpler and more comprehen . . . yes, ill." "Absolutely. So then, out of my human feelings and compassion, so to speak, I would be glad to be of service to her in any way, foreseeing her unfortunate position. I believe the whole of this poverty-stricken family depends now entirely on you?" "Allow me to ask," Sonia rose to her feet, "did you say something to her yesterday about the possibility of a pension? Because she told me you had agreed to get her one. Was that true?" "Not in the slightest, and in fact it an absurdity! I merely hinted that she might obtain temporary assistance as the widow of an official who had died in service if only she had patronage . . . but apparently your late father had not served his full term and recently, in fact, had not been in service at all. In fact, if there were any hope, it would be completely accidental, because there would be no claim for assistance in his case, far from it . . . And she is dreaming of a pension already, he-he-he! . . . A forward-thinking lady!" "Yes, she is. Because she is too trusting and she has a good heart, and she believes everything because of the goodness of her heart and . . . and . . . and she is like that . . . yes . . . You must excuse her," said Sonia, and again she got up to go. "But you haven't heard what I have to say." "No, I haven't heard," muttered Sonia. "Then sit down." She was terribly confused; she sat down again a third time. "Seeing her position with her unfortunate little ones, I should be glad, as I have said before, as far as it lies within my power, to be of service, that is, as far as it lies within my power to be, not more. One might for instance get up a subscription for her, or a lottery, something of the sort, such as is always arranged in such cases by friends or even outsiders who wish to assist people. It was of that I intended to speak to you; it might be done." "Yes, yes . . . God will repay you for it," faltered Sonia, gazing intently at Peter Petrovich. "It might be, but we will talk about that later. We might start today, we will talk it over this evening and lay the foundation, so to speak. Come to me at seven o'clock. Mr. Lebeziatnikov, I hope, will assist us. But there is one circumstance of which I ought to warn you beforehand and for which I would like to trouble you, Sofia Semionovna, to come here. In my opinion money cannot be . . . in fact, it unsafe to put it into Katerina Ivanovna own hands. The dinner today proves that. Though she has not, so to speak, even got a crust of bread for tomorrow and . . . well, boots or shoes, or anything; she has bought Jamaica rum today, and even, I believe, Madeira and . . . and coffee. I saw it as I passed through. Tomorrow it will all fall upon you again, they won't have a crust of bread. It absurd, really, and so, the way I see it, a subscription should be raised so that the unhappy widow would not know of the money existence only you would, for instance. Am I right?" "I don't know . . . this is only today, once in her life . . . She was so anxious to do him some kind of honor, to celebrate his memory . . . And she is very sensible . . . but just as you think and I shall be very, very . . . they will all be . . . and God will reward . . . and the orphans . . . " Sonia burst into tears. "Very well, then, keep it in mind; and now will you accept for the benefit of your relation the small sum that I am able to spare, from me personally. I am very anxious that my name should not be mentioned in connection with it. Here . . . having so to speak anxieties of my own, I cannot do more . . . " And Peter Petrovich held out to Sonia a ten-ruble note carefully unfolded. Sonia took it, flushed crimson, jumped up, muttered something and began to leave. Peter Petrovich accompanied her ceremoniously to the door. She got out of the room at last, agitated and distressed, and returned to Katerina Ivanovna, overwhelmed with confusion. All this time Lebeziatnikov had stood at the window or walked around the room, anxious not to interrupt the conversation; when Sonia had gone he walked up to Peter Petrovich and solemnly held out his hand. "I heard and saw everything," he said, laying stress on the last verb. "That is honorable, I mean to say, it humane! You wanted to avoid gratitude, I saw! And although I cannot, I confess, in principle sympathize with private charity, for it not only fails to eradicate the evil but even promotes it, yet I must admit that I witnessed your action with pleasure yes, yes, I like it." "That all nonsense," muttered Peter Petrovich, somewhat disconcerted, looking carefully at Lebeziatnikov. "No, it not nonsense! A man who has suffered distress and annoyance as you did yesterday and who can still sympathize with the misery of others, such a man . . . even though he is making a social mistake is still deserving of respect! In fact, I did not expect it of you, Peter Petrovich, especially as according to your ideas . . . oh, what a drawback your ideas are to you! How distressed you are for instance by your bad luck yesterday," cried the simple-hearted Lebeziatnikov, who felt his affection for Peter Petrovich return. "And, what do you want with marriage, with legal marriage, my dear, noble Peter Petrovich? Why do you cling to this legality of marriage? Well, you may beat me if you like, but I am glad, truly glad it hasn't succeeded, that you are free, that you are not quite lost for humanity . . . you see, I've spoken my mind!" "Because I don't want in your free marriage to be made a fool of and to bring up another man children, that why I want a legal marriage," Luzhin replied in order to make some answer. He seemed preoccupied by something. "Children? You referred to children," Lebeziatnikov started off like a warhorse at the trumpet call. "Children are a social question and a question of the utmost importance, I agree; but the question of children has another solution. Some refuse to have children altogether, because they suggest the institution of the family. We'll talk about children later, but now, as for the question of honor, I confess that my weak point. That horrid, military, Pushkinian expression is unthinkable in the dictionary of the future. What does it mean? It nonsense, there will be no deception in a free marriage! That is only the natural consequence of a legal marriage, so to say, its corrective, a protest. So that in fact it not humiliating . . . and if I ever, to suppose an absurdity, were to be legally married, I would be truly glad of it. I should say to my wife: ?ÄòMy dear, up until now I have loved you, now I respect you, because you've shown you can protest!' You laugh! That because you are of incapable of getting away from prejudices. Damn it all! I understand now why being deceived in a legal marriage is unpleasant, but it simply a despicable consequence of a despicable position in which both people are humiliated. When the deception is open, as in a free marriage, then it does not exist, it unthinkable. Your wife will only prove how she respects you by considering you incapable of opposing her happiness and avenging yourself on her for her new husband. Damn it all! I sometimes dream if I were to get married, foo! I mean if I were to get married, legally or not, it all the same, I should present my wife with a lover if she had not found one for herself. ?ÄòMy dear,' I should say, ?ÄòI love you, but even more than that I desire you to respect me. See!' Am I not right?" Peter Petrovich sniggered as he listened, but without much merriment. In fact, he hardly heard it. He was preoccupied with something else and at last even Lebeziatnikov noticed it. Peter Petrovich seemed excited and rubbed his hands. Lebeziatnikov remembered all this and reflected upon it afterwards. CHAPTER TWO IT WOULD BE DIFFICULT to explain exactly what could have put the idea of that senseless dinner into Katerina Ivanovna disordered brain. Nearly ten of the twenty rubles which Raskolnikov gave for Marmeladov funeral were wasted on it. Perhaps Katerina Ivanovna felt obliged to honor the memory of her late husband "suitably," so that all the tenants, Amalia Ivanovna in particular, might know "that he was in no way their inferior, and perhaps very much their superior," and that no-one had the right "to turn up his nose at him." Perhaps the chief element was that peculiar "poor man pride," which compels many poor people to spend their last savings on some traditional social ceremony, simply in order to do it "like other people," and not to "be looked down upon." It is very probable, too, that Katerina Ivanovna longed on this occasion, at the very moment when she seemed to be abandoned by everyone, to show those "wretched contemptible lodgers" that she knew "how to do things, how to entertain" and that she had been brought up "in a genteel, she might almost say aristocratic colonel family" and had not been meant for sweeping floors and washing the children rags at night. Even the poorest and most broken-spirited people are sometimes liable to these spasms of pride and vanity which take the form of an irresistible nervous craving. And Katerina Ivanovna was not broken-spirited; she might have been killed by the circumstances in which she found herself, but her spirit could not have been broken, that is, she could not have been intimidated, her will could not be crushed. Moreover, Sonia had said with good reason that her mind was unhinged. No-one could call her insane, but for a year now she had been so harassed that her mind might well be overstrained. The later stages of tuberculosis are apt, doctors tell us, to affect the intellect. There was not a large selection of wines, nor was there Madeira; but wine there was nevertheless. There was vodka, rum and Lisbon wine, all of the poorest quality but in sufficient quantity. Besides the traditional rice and honey, there were three or four dishes, one of which consisted of pancakes, all prepared in Amalia Ivanovna kitchen. Two samovars were boiling in order that tea and punch might be offered after dinner. Katerina Ivanovna had herself seen to purchasing the provisions, with the help of one of the lodgers, an unfortunate little Pole who had somehow been stranded at Madame Lippewechsel . He promptly put himself at Katerina Ivanovna disposal and had been running around all day as fast as his legs could carry him, and was very anxious that everyone should be aware of it. For every minor problem he ran to Katerina Ivanovna, even hunting her out at the market, at every instant called her "Pani." She was thoroughly sick of him before the end of it, though she had declared at first that she could not have got on without this "serviceable and magnanimous man." It was one of Katerina Ivanovna characteristics to paint everyone she met in the most glowing colors. Her praises were so exaggerated as to be embarrassing on occasion; she would invent various circumstances to the credit of her new acquaintance and quite genuinely believe in their reality. Then all of a sudden she would be disillusioned and would rudely and contemptuously repulse the person she had been literally adoring only a few hours previously. She had a naturally merry, lively and peace-loving disposition, but due to her continual failures and misfortunes she had come to desire so keenly that everyone should live in peace and joy and should not dare to break the peace that the slightest problem, the smallest disaster reduced her almost to a frenzy, and she would pass in an instant from the brightest hopes and fancies to cursing her fate and raving and knocking her head against the wall. Amalia Ivanovna, too, suddenly acquired extraordinary importance in Katerina Ivanovna eyes and was treated by her with extraordinary respect, probably only because Amalia Ivanovna had thrown herself heart and soul into the preparations. She had undertaken to lay the table, to provide the linen, crockery, etc., and to cook the dishes in her kitchen, and Katerina Ivanovna had left it all in her hands and gone off to the cemetery. Everything had been well done. Even the tablecloth was nearly clean; the crockery, knives, forks and glasses had been lent by different lodgers and were naturally of all shapes and patterns, but the table was properly laid at the time fixed, and Amalia Ivanovna, feeling she had done her work well, had put on a black silk dress and a cap with new mourning ribbons and met the returning party with some pride. This pride, though justifiable, displeased Katerina Ivanovna for some reason: "as though the table could not have been laid except by Amalia Ivanovna!" She disliked the cap with its new ribbons, too. "Could she be so dismissive, the stupid German, because she was the mistress of the house and had agreed as a favor to help her poor tenants! As a favor! Imagine! Katerina Ivanovna father, who had been a colonel and almost a governor, had sometimes had the table set for forty people, and anyone like Amalia Ivanovna, or rather Ludwigovna, would not have been allowed into the kitchen." Katerina Ivanovna, however, put off expressing her feelings for the time being and contented herself with treating her coldly, though she decided inwardly that she would certainly have to put Amalia Ivanovna down and set her in her place, for goodness only knew how highly she thought of herself. Katerina Ivanovna was irritated too by the fact that hardly any of the tenants whom she had invited had come to the funeral, except the Pole who had just managed to run into the cemetery, while to the memorial dinner the poorest and most insignificant of them had turned up, the wretched creatures, many of them not quite sober. The older and more respectable ones among them stayed away, as if by common consent. Peter Petrovich Luzhin, for instance, who could be described as the most respectable of all the tenants, did not appear, though Katerina Ivanovna had the evening before told the whole world, that is Amalia Ivanovna, Polenka, Sonia and the Pole, that he was the most generous, noble-hearted man with a large property and vast connections, who had been a friend of her first husband , and a guest in her father house, and that he had promised to use all his influence to secure her a considerable pension. It must be noted that when Katerina Ivanovna praised anyone connections and fortune, it was without any ulterior motive, entirely disinterestedly, for the mere pleasure of increasing the importance of the person praised. Probably "taking his cue" from Luzhin, "that contemptible wretch Lebeziatnikov had not turned up either. Why did he think so highly of himself? He was only invited out of kindness and because he was sharing the same room with Peter Petrovich and was a friend of his: it would have been awkward not to invite him." Among those who failed to appear were "the genteel lady and her old-maidish daughter," who had only been lodgers in the house for the last fortnight, but had several times complained of the noise and uproar in Katerina Ivanovna room, especially when Marmeladov had come back drunk. Katerina Ivanovna heard this from Amalia Ivanovna who, quarrelling with Katerina Ivanovna, and threatening to turn the whole family out of doors, had shouted at her that they "were not worth the foot" of the honorable lodgers whom they were disturbing. Katerina Ivanovna determined now to invite this lady and her daughter, "whose foot she was not worth," and who had turned away haughtily when she met them casually, so that they might know that "she was more noble in her thoughts and feelings and did not harbor malice," and might see that she was not accustomed to her way of living. She had proposed to make this clear to them at dinner with allusions to her late father governorship, and also at the same time to hint that it was extremely stupid of them to turn away on meeting her. The fat colonel-major (he was really a discharged officer of low rank) was also absent, but it appeared that he had "not been himself " for the last two days. The party consisted of the Pole, a wretched looking clerk with a spotty face and a greasy coat, who had not a word to say for himself and smelt abominably, and a deaf and almost blind old man who had once been in the post office and who had been maintained by someone at Amalia Ivanovna for as long as anyone could remember. A retired clerk of the commissariat department came, too; he was drunk, had a loud and extremely indecent laugh and, just imagine he came without a waistcoat! One of the visitors sat straight down at the table without even greeting Katerina Ivanovna. Finally, one person with no suit on appeared in his dressing gown, but this was too much, and the efforts of Amalia Ivanovna and the Pole succeeded in removing him. The Pole brought with him, however, two other Poles who did not live at Amalia Ivanovna and whom no-one had seen here before. All this irritated Katerina Ivanovna intensely. "For whom had they made all these preparations then?" To make room for the visitors the children had not even had places laid for them at the table; but the two little ones were sitting on a bench in the furthest corner with their dinner laid on a box, while Polenka, as the biggest girl, had to look after them, feed them, and keep their noses wiped like well-bred children . Katerina Ivanovna, in fact, could hardly help meeting her guests with increased dignity, and even arrogance. She stared at some of them with particular severity, and loftily invited them to take their seats. Rushing to the conclusion that Amalia Ivanovna must be responsible for those who were absent, she began treating her with extreme indifference, which the latter promptly observed and resented. Such a beginning was not a good omen for the end. All were seated at last. Raskolnikov came in almost at the moment of their return from the cemetery. Katerina Ivanovna was greatly delighted to see him, firstly, because he was the one "educated visitor, and, as everyone knew, was to take a professorship at the university in two years' time," and secondly because he immediately and respectfully apologized for the fact that he had been unable to be present at the funeral. She absolutely pounced on him, and made him sit at her left (Amalia Ivanovna was at her right). Despite her continual anxiety that the dishes should be passed round correctly and that everyone should taste them, in spite of the agonizing cough which interrupted her every minute and seemed to have grown worse during the last few days, she hastened to pour out in a half whisper to Raskolnikov all her suppressed feelings and her just indignation at the failure of the dinner, interspersing her remarks with lively and uncontrollable laughter at the expense of her visitors and especially of her landlady. "It all that cuckoo fault! You know who I mean? Her, her!" Katerina Ivanovna nodded towards the landlady. "Look at her, she making round eyes, she feels that we are talking about her and can't understand. Foo, the owl! Ha-ha! (Cough-cough-cough.) And what does she put on that cap for? (Cough-cough-cough.) Have you noticed that she wants everyone to consider that she is patronizing me and doing me an honor by being here? I asked her like a sensible woman to invite people, especially people who knew my late husband, and look at the set of fools she has brought! The sweeps! Look at that one with the spotty face. And those wretched Poles, ha-ha-ha! (Cough-cough-cough.) Not one of them has ever poked his nose in here, I've never set eyes on them. What have they come here for, I ask you? There they sit in a row. Hey, Pan!" she cried suddenly to one of them, "have you tasted the pancakes? Take some more! Have some beer! Won't you have some vodka? Look, he jumping up and making his bows, they must be absolutely starved, poor people. Never mind, let them eat! They don't make a noise, anyway, though I'm really afraid for our landlady silver spoons . . . Amalia Ivanovna!" she addressed her suddenly, almost aloud, "if your spoons should happen to be stolen, I won't be responsible, I warn you! Ha-ha-ha!" She laughed turning to Raskolnikov, and again nodding towards the landlady, very pleased with her attack. "She didn't understand, she didn't understand again! Look how she sits with her mouth open! An owl, a real owl! An owl in new ribbons, ha-ha-ha!" Here her laugh turned again to an insufferable fit of coughing that lasted five minutes. Drops of perspiration stood out on her forehead and her handkerchief was stained with blood. She showed Raskolnikov the blood in silence, and as soon as she could get her breath began whispering to him again with extreme animation and a hectic flush on her cheeks. "Do you know, I gave her the most delicate instructions, so to speak, for inviting that lady and her daughter, you understand who I am talking about? It needed the utmost delicacy, the greatest nicety, but she has managed things so that that fool, that conceited baggage, that provincial nonentity, simply because she is the widow of a major, and has come to try and get a pension and fray out her skirts in the government offices, because at fifty she paints her face (everybody knows it) . . . a creature like that did not think fit to come, and has not even answered the invitation, which the most ordinary good manners required! I can't understand why Peter Petrovich has not come! But where Sonia? Where has she gone? Ah, there she is at last! What is it, Sonia, where have you been? It odd that even at your father funeral you should be so unpunctual. Rodion Romanovich, make room for her beside you. That your place, Sonia . . . take what you like. Have some of the cold entr?(c)e with the jelly, that the best. They'll bring the pancakes in a few minutes. Have they given the children some? Polenka, have you got everything? (Cough-cough-cough.) That all right. Be a good girl, Lida, and, Kolia, don't fidget with your feet; sit like a little gentleman. What are you saying, Sonia?" Sonia hurriedly gave her Peter Petrovich apologies, trying to speak loud enough for everyone to hear and carefully choosing the most respectful phrases which she attributed to Peter Petrovich. She added that Peter Petrovich had particularly told her to say that, as soon as he possibly could, he would come immediately to discuss business alone with her and to consider what could be done for her, etc., etc. Sonia knew that this would comfort Katerina Ivanovna, flatter her and satisfy her pride. She sat down beside Raskolnikov; she made him a hurried bow, glancing curiously at him. But for the rest of the time she seemed to avoid looking at him or speaking to him. She seemed absent-minded, though she kept looking at Katerina Ivanovna, trying to please her. Neither she nor Katerina Ivanovna had been able to get mourning clothes; Sonia was wearing dark brown, and Katerina Ivanovna was in her only dress, a dark striped cotton one. The message from Peter Petrovich was very successful. Listening to Sonia with dignity, Katerina Ivanovna inquired with equal dignity how Peter Petrovich was, then at once whispered almost aloud to Raskolnikov that it certainly would have been strange for a man of Peter Petrovich position and standing to find himself in such "extraordinary company," in spite of his devotion to her family and his old friendship with her father. "That why I am so grateful to you, Rodion Romanovich, that you have not disdained my hospitality, even in such surroundings," she added almost aloud. "But I am sure that it was only your special affection for my poor husband that has made you keep your promise." Then once more with pride and dignity she scanned her visitors, and suddenly inquired aloud across the table of the deaf man: "wouldn't he have some more meat, and had he been given some wine?" The old man did not answer and for a long time could not understand what he was asked, though his neighbors amused themselves by poking and shaking him. He simply gazed about him with his mouth open, which only increased the general amusement. "What an imbecile! Look, look! Why was he brought? But as for Peter Petrovich, I always had confidence in him," Katerina Ivanovna continued, "and, of course, he is not like . . . " with an extremely stern face she addressed Amalia Ivanovna so sharply and loudly that the latter was entirely disconcerted, "not like your dressed up floozies who my father would not have taken as cooks into his kitchen. My late husband would have done them the honor of taking them in if he had invited them in the goodness of his heart." "Yes, he was fond of drink, he was fond of it, he did drink!" shouted the commissariat clerk, gulping down his twelfth glass of vodka. "My late husband certainly had that weakness, and everyone knows it," Katerina Ivanovna attacked him at once, "but he was a kind and honorable man, who loved and respected his family. The worst of it was that his good nature made him trust all sorts of disreputable people, and he drank with people who were not worth the sole of his shoe. Would you believe it, Rodion Romanovich, they found a gin gerbread cockerel in his pocket; he was dead drunk, but he did not forget the children!" "A cockerel? Did you say a cockerel?" shouted the commissariat clerk. Katerina Ivanovna did not vouchsafe a reply. She sighed, lost in thought. "No doubt you think, like everyone, that I was too severe with him," she went on, addressing Raskolnikov. "But that not true! He respected me, he respected me very much! He was a kind-hearted man! And how sorry I was for him sometimes! He would sit in a corner and look at me, I used to feel so sorry for him, I used to want to be kind to him and then I would think to myself: ?ÄòBe kind to him and he will drink again,' it was only through severity that you could keep him within bounds." "Yes, he used to get his hair pulled pretty often," roared the commissariat clerk again, swallowing another glass of vodka. "Some fools would be the better for a real beating, as well as having their hair pulled. I am not talking about my late husband now!" Katerina Ivanovna snapped at him. The flush on her cheeks grew more and more marked, her chest heaved. In another minute she would have been ready to make a scene. Many of the visitors were sniggering, evidently delighted. They began poking the commissariat clerk and whispering something to him. They were evidently trying to egg him on. "Allow me to ask what are you referring to," began the clerk, "that is to say, whose . . . about whom . . . did you say just now . . . But I don't care! That nonsense! Widow! I forgive you . . . Pass!" And he took another drink of vodka. Raskolnikov sat in silence, listening with disgust. He only ate out of politeness, just tasting the food that Katerina Ivanovna was continually putting on his plate, to avoid hurting her feelings. He watched Sonia intently. But Sonia became more and more anxious and distressed; she, too, foresaw that the dinner would not end peaceably, and saw with terror Katerina Ivanovna growing irritation. She knew that she, Sonia, was the chief reason for the "genteel" ladies' contemptuous treatment of Katerina Ivanovna invitation. She had heard from Amalia Ivanovna that the mother was positively offended at the invitation and had asked the question: "How could she let her daughter sit down beside that young person?" Sonia had a feeling that Katerina Ivanovna had already heard this and an insult to Sonia meant more to Katerina Ivanovna than an insult to herself, her children, or her father. Sonia knew that Katerina Ivanovna would not be satisfied now, "till she had shown those floozies that they were both . . . " To make matters worse someone passed Sonia, from the other end of the table, a plate with two hearts pierced with an arrow, cut out of black bread. Katerina Ivanovna flushed crimson and at once said aloud across the table that the man who sent it was "a drunken ass!" Amalia Ivanovna was foreseeing that something would go wrong, and at the same time she was deeply wounded by Katerina Ivanovna dismissiveness, so to restore the good mood at the party and raise herself in their esteem she began, entirely at random, to tell a story about an acquaintance of hers, "Karl from the chemist ", who was driving one night in a cab, and that "the cabman wanted him to kill, and Karl very much begged him not to kill, and wept and clasped hands, and frightened and from fear pierced his heart." Though Katerina Ivanovna smiled, she observed at once that Amalia Ivanovna ought not to tell anecdotes in Russian; the latter was even more offended, and she retorted that her "Vater aus Berlin was a very important man, and always went with his hands in pockets." Katerina Ivanovna could not restrain herself and laughed so much that Amalia Ivanovna lost patience and could scarcely control herself. "Listen to the owl!" Katerina Ivanovna whispered at once, her good-humor almost restored, "she meant to say he kept his hands in his pockets, but she said he put his hands in people pockets. (Cough-cough.) And have you noticed, Rodion Romanovich, that all these Petersburg foreigners, the Germans especially, are all stupider than we are! Can you fancy anyone of us telling how ?ÄòKarl from the chemist pierced his heart from fear' and that the idiot instead of punishing the cabman, ?Äòclasped his hands and wept, and much begged.' Ah, the fool! And you know she thinks it very touching and does not suspect how stupid she is! The way I see it, that drunken commissariat clerk is a great deal cleverer, anyway one can see that he has addled his brains with drink, but you know, these foreigners are always so well behaved and serious . . . Look how she sits glaring! She is angry, ha-ha! (Cough-cough-cough.)" Regaining her temper, Katerina Ivanovna began to tell Raskolnikov that when she had obtained her pension, she intended to open a school for gentlemen daughters in her native town, T____. This was the first time she had spoken to him about the project, and she launched out into the most alluring details. It suddenly appeared that Katerina Ivanovna had in her hands the same certificate of honour which Marmeladov had told Raskolnikov about in the tavern, when he told him that Katerina Ivanovna, his wife, had danced the shawl dance before the governor and other important people when she left school. This certificate of honour was obviously intended now to prove Katerina Ivanovna right to open a boarding-school; but she had armed herself with it chiefly with the purpose of overwhelming "those two stuck-up floozies" if they came to the dinner, and proving incontestably that Katerina Ivanovna was of the most noble, "she might even say aristocratic family, a colonel daughter and was far superior to certain adventuresses who have been so much to the fore recently." The certificate of honor immediately passed into the hands of the drunken guests, and Katerina Ivanovna did not try to retain it, for it actually contained the statement en toutes lettres48 that her father was a major, and also a companion of an order, so that she really was almost the daughter of a colonel. Warming up, Katerina Ivanovna proceeded to enlarge on the peaceful and happy life they would lead in T____, on the gymnasium teachers whom she would engage to give lessons in her boarding-school, one a highly respectable old Frenchman called Mangot, who had taught Katerina Ivanovna herself in the old days and was still living in T____, and would no doubt teach in her school on moderate terms. Next she spoke of Sonia who would go with her to T____ and help her in all her plans. At this someone at the further end of the table suddenly chuckled. Though Katerina Ivanovna tried to appear to be disdainfully unaware of it, she raised her voice and began at once speaking with conviction of Sonia undoubted ability to assist her, of "her gentleness, patience, devotion, generosity and good education," tapping Sonia on the cheek and kissing her warmly twice. Sonia flushed crimson, and Katerina Ivanovna suddenly burst into tears, immediately observing that she was "nervous and silly, that she was too upset, that it was time to finish, and as the dinner was over, it was time to hand round the tea." At that moment, Amalia Ivanovna, deeply aggrieved that she had played no part in the conversation and that no-one was listening to her, made one last effort, and with secret misgivings ventured on an extremely deep and weighty observation, that "in the future boarding-school she would have to pay particular attention to die Wasche, and that there certainly must be a good Dame to look after the linen, and secondly that the young ladies must not novels at night read." Katerina Ivanovna, who was certainly upset and very tired, as well as heartily sick of the dinner, at once cut short Amalia Ivanovna, saying "she knew nothing about it and was talking nonsense, that it was the business of the laundry maid, and not of the directress of a high-class boarding-school to look after die Wasche, and as for novel reading, that was simply rude, and she begged her to be silent." Amalia Ivanovna was enraged and observed that she only "meant her good," and that "she had meant her very good," and that "it was long since she had paid her gold for the lodgings." Katerina Ivanovna at once put her down, saying that it was a lie to say she wished her good, because only yesterday, when her dead husband was lying on the table, she had bothered her about the lodgings. To this Amalia Ivanovna very appropriately retorted that she had invited those ladies, but "those ladies had not come, because those ladies are ladies and cannot come to a lady who is not a lady." Katerina Ivanovna at once pointed out to her, that as she was a slut she could not judge what made one really a lady. Amalia Ivanovna at once declared that her "Vater aus Berlin was a very, very important man, and both hands in pockets went, and always used to say: poof! poof!" and she leapt up from the table to represent her father, sticking her hands in her pockets, puffing her cheeks, and uttering vague sounds resembling "poof! poof!" amid loud laughter from all the lodgers, who deliberately encouraged Amalia Ivanovna, hoping for a fight. But this was too much for Katerina Ivanovna, and she at once declared, so all could hear, that Amalia Ivanovna probably never had a father, but was just a drunken Petersburg Finn, and had certainly once been a cook and probably something worse. Amalia Ivanovna turned red as a lobster and squealed that perhaps Katerina Ivanovna never had a father, "but she had a Vater aus Berlin and that he wore a long coat and always said poof-poof-poof!" Katerina Ivanovna observed contemptuously that everyone knew who her family was and that on that very certificate of honour it was stated in print that her father was a colonel, while Amalia Ivanovna father if she really had one was probably some Finnish milkman, but that probably she never had a father at all, since it was still uncertain whether her name was Amalia Ivanovna or Amalia Ludwigovna. At this Amalia Ivanovna, lashed to fury, struck the table with her fist, and shrieked that she was Amalia Ivanovna, and not Ludwigovna, "that her Vater was named Johann and that he was a burgomeister, and that Katerina Ivanovna Vater was quite never a burgomeister." Katerina Ivanovna rose from her chair, and with a stern and apparently calm voice (though she was pale and her chest was heaving) observed that "if she dared for one moment to set her contemptible wretch of a father on a level with her papa, she, Katerina Ivanovna, would tear her cap off her head and trample it under foot." Amalia Ivanovna ran about the room, shouting at the top of her voice, that she was mistress of the house and that Katerina Ivanovna should leave the lodgings that minute; then she rushed for some reason to collect the silver spoons from the table. There was a great outcry and uproar, the children began crying. Sonia ran to restrain Katerina Ivanovna, but when Amalia Ivanovna shouted something about "the yellow ticket," Katerina Ivanovna pushed Sonia away, and rushed at the landlady to carry out her threat. At that minute the door opened, and Peter Petrovich Luzhin appeared on the threshold. He stood scanning the party with severe and vigilant eyes. Katerina Ivanovna rushed towards him. CHAPTER THREE "PETER PETROVICH," SHE CRIED, "protect me . . . you at least! Make this foolish woman understand that she can't behave like this to a lady in misfortune . . . that there is a law for such things . . . I'll go to the governor-general himself . . . She shall answer for it . . . Remember my father hospitality; protect these orphans." "Allow me, madam . . . Allow me." Peter Petrovich waved her off. "Your father, as you are well aware, I did not have the honor of knowing" (someone laughed aloud) "and I do not intend to take part in your everlasting squabbles with Amalia Ivanovna . . . I have come here to speak of my own affairs . . . and I want to have a word with your stepdaughter, Sofia . . . Ivanovna, I think it is? Allow me to pass." Peter Petrovich, edging by her, went to the opposite corner where Sonia was. Katerina Ivanovna remained standing where she was, as though thunderstruck. She could not understand how Peter Petrovich could deny having enjoyed her father hospitality. Though she had invented it herself, she believed in it firmly by this time. She was struck too by the businesslike, dry and even contemptuously menacing tone of Peter Petrovich. All the clamor gradually died away when he came in. Not only was this "serious business man" strikingly incongruous with the rest of the party, but it was evident, too, that he had come about some matter of importance, that some exceptional cause must have brought him and that therefore something was going to happen. Raskolnikov, standing beside Sonia, moved aside to let him pass; Peter Petrovich did not seem to notice him. A minute later Lebeziatnikov, too, appeared in the doorway; he did not come in, but stood still, listening with marked interest, almost amazement, and seemed to be temporarily perplexed. "Excuse me for possibly interrupting you, but it a matter of some importance," Peter Petrovich observed, addressing the company generally. "I am glad, in fact, to find other people present. Amalia Ivanovna, I humbly beg you as mistress of the house to pay careful attention to what I have to say to Sofia Ivanovna. Sofia Ivanovna," he went on, addressing Sonia, who was very much surprised and already alarmed, "immediately after your visit I found that a hundred-ruble note was missing from my table, in the room of my friend Mr. Lebeziatnikov. If in any way whatever you know and will tell us where it is now, I assure you on my word of honor and call all present to witness that the matter shall end there. In the opposite case I shall be compelled to have recourse to very serious measures and then . . . you must blame yourself." Complete silence reigned in the room. Even the crying children were still. Sonia stood deadly pale, staring at Luzhin and unable to say a word. She seemed not to understand. Some seconds passed. "Well, how is it to be then?" asked Luzhin, looking intently at her. "I don't know . . . I know nothing about it," Sonia articulated faintly at last. "No, you know nothing?" Luzhin repeated and again he paused for some seconds. "Think for a moment, young lady," he began severely, but still, as it were, reprimanding her. "Think it over, I am prepared to give you time for consideration. Please observe: if I were not so entirely convinced I would not, you may be sure, with my experience attempt to accuse you so directly. I am aware that for such direct accusation before witnesses, if false or even mistaken, I should myself in a certain sense be made responsible. This morning I changed for my own purposes several five per cent. securities for the sum of approximately three thousand rubles. The account is noted down in my pocket-book. On my return home I proceeded to count the money, as Mr. Lebeziatnikov will testify, and after counting two thousand three hundred rubles I put the rest in my pocket-book in my coat pocket. About five hundred rubles remained on the table and among them three notes of a hundred rubles each. At that moment you entered (at my invitation) and all the time you were present you were extremely embarrassed; three times you jumped up in the middle of the conversation and tried to leave. Mr. Lebeziatnikov can bear witness to this. You yourself, young lady, will probably not refuse to confirm my statement that I invited you through Mr. Lebeziatnikov, solely in order to discuss with you the hopeless and destitute position of your relative, Katerina Ivanovna (whose dinner I was unable to attend), and the advisability of starting something like a subscription or a lottery for her benefit. You thanked me and even shed tears. I describe all this as it took place, primarily to recall it to your mind and secondly to show you that not the slightest detail has escaped my recollection. Then I took a ten-ruble note from the table and handed it to you as a first installment on my part for the benefit of your relative. Mr. Lebeziatnikov saw all this. Then I accompanied you to the door, during which you were still in the same state of embarrassment, after which I was left alone with Mr. Lebeziatnikov and talked to him for ten minutes; then Mr. Lebeziatnikov went out and I returned to the table with the money lying on it, intending to count it and to put it aside, as I proposed doing before. To my surprise one hundred-ruble note had disappeared. Please consider my position. Mr. Lebeziatnikov I cannot suspect. I am ashamed even to refer to any such suspicion. I cannot have made a mistake in my calculations, because the minute before you came in I had finished my accounts and found the total to be correct. You will admit that when I recalled your embarrassment, your eagerness to leave and the fact that you kept your hands for some time on the table, and taking into consideration your social position and the habits associated with it, I was, so to say, horrified and compelled to entertain a suspicion entirely against my will a cruel, but justifiable suspicion! I will go further and repeat that despite my positive conviction, I realize that I run a certain risk in making this accusation, but as you see, I could not let it pass. I have taken action and I will tell you why: solely, madam, solely because of your blackest ingratitude! How is this? I invite you for the benefit of your destitute relative, I present you with my donation of ten rubles and you, on the spot, repay me with an action like that. It is too bad! You need to learn a lesson. Think about it! Moreover, as a true friend I beg you and you could have no better friend at the moment think about what you are doing, otherwise I will refuse to alter my position! Well, what do you say?" "I have taken nothing," Sonia whispered in terror, "you gave me ten rubles, here it is, take it." Sonia pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket, untied a corner of it, took out the ten-ruble note and gave it to Luzhin. "And the hundred rubles you do not confess to taking?" he insisted reproachfully, not taking the note. Sonia looked about her. All were looking at her with such awful, stern, ironic, hostile eyes. She looked at Raskolnikov . . . he stood against the wall, with his arms crossed, looking at her with glowing eyes. "Good God!" broke from Sonia. "Amalia Ivanovna, we shall have to send for the police and therefore I humbly beg you meanwhile to send for the house porter," Luzhin said softly and even kindly. "Gott der barmherzige! I knew she was the thief," cried Amalia Ivanovna, throwing up her hands. "You knew it?" Luzhin caught her up, "then I suppose you had some reason before this for thinking so. I beg you, my dear Amalia Ivanovna, to remember your words which have been uttered before witnesses." There was a buzz of loud conversation on all sides. All were in movement. "What!" cried Katerina Ivanovna, suddenly realizing the position, and she rushed at Luzhin. "What! You accuse her of stealing? Sonia? Ah, the wretches, the wretches!" And running to Sonia she flung her wasted arms round her and held her as if in a vice. "Sonia! How dared you take ten rubles from him? Foolish girl! Give it to me! Give me the ten rubles at once here!" And snatching the note from Sonia, Katerina Ivanovna crumpled it up and flung it straight into Luzhin face. It hit him in the eye and fell on the ground. Amalia Ivanovna swiftly picked it up. Peter Petrovich lost his temper. "Hold that mad woman!" he shouted. At that moment several other persons, besides Lebeziatnikov, appeared in the doorway, among them the two ladies. "What! Mad? Am I mad? Idiot!" shrieked Katerina Ivanovna. "You are an idiot yourself, pettifogging lawyer, base man! Sonia, Sonia take his money! Sonia a thief! She'd give away her last penny!" and Katerina Ivanovna broke into hysterical laughter. "Did you ever see such an idiot?" she turned from side to side. "And you too?" she suddenly saw the landlady, "and you too, sausage eater, you declare that she is a thief, you trashy Prussian hen leg in a crinoline! She hasn't been out of this room: she came straight from you, you wretch, and sat down beside me, everyone saw her. She sat here, by Rodion Romanovich. Search her! Since she not left the room, the money would have to be on her! Search her, search her! But if you don't find it, then excuse me, my dear fellow, you'll answer for it! I'll go to our Sovereign, to our Sovereign, to our gracious Tsar himself, and throw myself at his feet, today, this minute! I am alone in the world! They would let me in! Do you think they wouldn't? You're wrong, I will get in! I will get in! You counted on her meekness! You relied upon that! But I am not so submissive, let me tell you! You've gone too far yourself. Search her, search her!" And Katerina Ivanovna in a frenzy shook Luzhin and dragged him towards Sonia. "I am ready, I'll be responsible . . . but calm yourself, madam, calm yourself. I see that you are not so submissive! ... Well, well, but as to that . . . " Luzhin muttered, "that ought to be before the police . . . though in fact there are enough witnesses as it is . . . I am ready . . . But in any case it difficult for a man . . . on account of her sex . . . But with the help of Amalia Ivanovna . . . though, of course, it not the way to do things . . . How is it to be done?" "As you will! Let anyone who likes search her!" cried Katerina Ivanovna. "Sonia, turn out your pockets! See. Look, monster, the pocket is empty, here was her handkerchief! Here is the other pocket, look! Do you see, do you see?" And Katerina Ivanovna turned or rather snatched both pockets inside out. But from the right pocket a piece of paper flew out, traced a parabola in the air and fell at Luzhin feet. Everyone saw it, several cried out. Peter Petrovich stooped down, picked up the paper in two fingers, lifted it where all could see it and opened it. It was a hundred-ruble note folded in eight. Peter Petrovich held up the note, showing it to everyone. "Thief! Out of my lodging. Police, police!" yelled Amalia Ivanovna. "They must to Siberia be sent! Away!" Exclamations arose on all sides. Raskolnikov was silent, keeping his eyes fixed on Sonia, except for an occasional rapid glance at Luzhin. Sonia stood still, as though unconscious. She was hardly able to feel surprise. Suddenly the color rushed to her cheeks; she uttered a cry and hid her face in her hands. "No, it wasn't I! I didn't take it! I know nothing about it," she cried with a heartrending wail, and she ran to Katerina Ivanovna, who clasped her tightly in her arms, as though she would shelter her from the whole world. "Sonia! Sonia! I don't believe it! You see, I don't believe it!" she cried in the face of the obvious fact, swaying her to and fro in her arms like a baby, kissing her face continually, then snatching at her hands and kissing them, too. "You took it! How stupid these people are! Oh dear! You are fools, fools," she cried, addressing the whole room, "you don't know, you don't know what a heart she has, what a girl she is! She take it, she? She'd sell her last rag, she'd go barefoot to help you if you needed it, that what she is! She has the yellow passport because my children were starving, she sold herself for us! Ah, husband, husband! Do you see? Do you see? What a memorial dinner for you! Merciful heavens! Defend her, why are you all standing still? Rodion Romanovich, why don't you stand up for her? Do you believe it, too? You are not worth her little finger, all of you together! Good God! Defend her now, at least!" The wail of the poor, consumptive, helpless woman seemed to produce a great effect on her audience. The agonized, wasted, tubercular face, the parched, blood-stained lips, the hoarse voice, the tears unrestrained as a child , the trustful, childish and yet despairing prayer for help were so piteous that every one seemed to feel for her. Peter Petrovich at any rate was at once moved to compassion. "Madam, madam, this incident does not reflect upon you!" he cried impressively, "no-one would take upon himself to accuse you of being an instigator or even an accomplice in it, especially as you have proved her guilt by turning out her pockets, showing that you had no previous idea of it. I am most ready, most ready to show compassion, if poverty, so to speak, drove Sofia Semionovna to it, but why did you refuse to confess, mademoiselle? Were you afraid of the disgrace? The first step? You lost your head, perhaps? One can quite understand it . . . But how could you have lowered yourself to such an action? Gentlemen," he addressed the whole company, "gentlemen! Compassionate and so to say commiserating with these people, I am ready to overlook it even now in spite of the personal insult lavished upon me! And may this disgrace be a lesson to you for the future," he said, addressing Sonia, "and I will carry the matter no further. Enough!" Peter Petrovich stole a glance at Raskolnikov. Their eyes met, and the fire in Raskolnikov seemed ready to reduce him to ashes. Meanwhile Katerina Ivanovna apparently heard nothing. She was kissing and hugging Sonia like a madwoman. The children, too, were embracing Sonia on all sides, and Polenka though she did not fully understand what was wrong was drowned in tears and shaking with sobs, as she hid her pretty little face, swollen with weeping, on Sonia shoulder. "How vile!" a loud voice cried suddenly in the doorway. Peter Petrovich looked round quickly. "What vileness!" Lebeziatnikov repeated, staring him straight in the face. Peter Petrovich practically shuddered everyone noticed it and recalled it afterwards. Lebeziatnikov strode into the room. "And you dared to call me as a witness?" he said, going up to Peter Petrovich. "What do you mean? What are you talking about?" muttered Luzhin. "I mean that you . . . are a slanderer, that what my words mean!" Lebeziatnikov said hotly, looking sternly at him with his shortsighted eyes. He was extremely angry. Raskolnikov gazed intently at him, as though seizing and weighing each word. Again there was a silence. Peter Petrovich seemed almost dumbstruck at first. "If you mean that for me, . . . " he began, stammering. "But what the matter with you? Are you out of your mind?" "I'm in my mind, but you are a scoundrel! Ah, how vile! I have heard everything. I kept waiting on purpose to understand it, for I must admit even now it is not quite logical . . . What you have done it all for I can't understand." "Why, what have I done then? Stop talking in your nonsensical riddles! Or maybe you are drunk!" "You may be a drunkard, perhaps, you disgusting individual, but I am not! I never touch vodka, because it against my convictions. Would you believe it, he, he himself, with his own hands gave Sofia Semionovna that hundred-ruble note I saw it, I was a witness, I'll take my oath! He did it, he!" repeated Lebeziatnikov, addressing all. "Are you crazy, you milksop?" squealed Luzhin. "She is in front of you herself she herself here declared just now in front of everyone that I gave her only ten rubles. How could I have given it to her?" "I saw it, I saw it," Lebeziatnikov repeated, "and although it is against my principles, I am ready this very minute to take any oath you like before the court, because I saw how you slipped it in her pocket. Only like a fool I thought you did it out of kindness! When you were saying goodbye to her at the door, while you held her hand in one hand, with the other, the left, you slipped the note into her pocket. I saw it, I saw it!" Luzhin turned pale. "What lies!" he cried insolently, "why, how could you, standing by the window, see the note! You imagined it with your shortsighted eyes. You are raving!" "No, I didn't imagine it. And though I was standing some way off, I saw it all. And though it certainly would be hard to distinguish a note from the window that true I knew for certain that it was a hundred-ruble note, because, when you were going to give Sofia Semionovna ten rubles, you picked up from the table a hundred-ruble note (I saw it because I was standing nearby at the time, and an idea struck me at once, so I did not forget you had it in your hand). You folded it and kept it in your hand all the time. I didn't think of it again until, when you were getting up, you changed it from your right hand to your left and nearly dropped it! I noticed it because the same idea struck me again, that you meant to do her a kindness without me seeing anything. You can imagine how I watched you and I saw how you succeeded in slipping it into her pocket. I saw it, I saw it, I'd swear an oath on it." Lebeziatnikov was almost breathless. Exclamations arose on all sides, chiefly expressing amazement, but some were menacing in tone. They all crowded round Peter Petrovich. Katerina Ivanovna flew to Lebeziatnikov. "I was mistaken about you! Protect her! You are the only one to take her side! She is an orphan. God has sent you!" Katerina Ivanovna, hardly knowing what she was doing, sank on her knees before him. "A pack of nonsense!" yelled Luzhin, infuriated. "It all nonsense you've been talking! ?ÄòAn idea struck you, you didn't think, you noticed' what does it amount to? So I gave it to her on the sly on purpose? What for? With what aim? What do I have to do with this . . . ?" "What for? That what I can't understand, but that what I am telling you is the fact, that certain! Far from being mistaken, you infamous, criminal man, I remember how, because of it, a question occurred to me at once, just when I was thanking you and pressing your hand. What made you put it secretly in her pocket? Why did you do it secretly, I mean? Could it be simply to conceal it from me, knowing that my convictions are opposed to yours and that I do not approve of private benevolence, which brings about no radical cure? Well, I decided that you really were ashamed of giving such a large sum in front of me. Perhaps, too, I thought, he wants to give her a surprise, when she finds a whole hundred-ruble note in her pocket. (For I know some benevolent people are very fond of decking out their charitable actions in that way.) Then the idea struck me, too, that you wanted to test her, to see whether, when she found it, she would come to thank you. Then, too, that you wanted to avoid thanks and that, as the saying is, your right hand should not know . . . something of that sort, in fact. I thought of so many possibilities that I put off considering it, but still thought it indelicate to show you I knew your secret. But another idea struck me again that Sofia Semionovna might easily lose the money before she noticed it, which was why I decided to come in here to call her out of the room and to tell her that you put a hundred rubles in her pocket. But on my way I went first to Madame Kobilatnikov to take them the ?ÄòGeneral Treatise on the Positive Method'49 and especially to recommend Piderit article (and also Wagner ); then I come on here and what a state of things I find! Now could I, could I, have all these ideas and reflections, if I had not seen you put the hundred-ruble note in her pocket?" When Lebeziatnikov finished his long-winded assault with the logical deduction at the end, he was quite tired, and the perspiration streamed from his face. He could not, alas, even express himself correctly in Russian, though he knew no other language, and so he was totally exhausted, almost emaciated after this heroic exploit. But his speech produced a powerful effect. He had spoken with such passion, with such conviction that everyone obviously believed him. Peter Petrovich felt that things were going badly for him. "What is it to do with me if silly ideas did occur to you?" he shouted, "that no evidence. You may have dreamt it, that all! And I tell you, you are lying, sir. You are lying and slandering from some spite against me, simply because you were somehow offended that I did not agree with your freethinking, godless, social propositions!" But this retort did not benefit Peter Petrovich. Murmurs of disapproval were heard on all sides. "Ah, that your line now, is it!" cried Lebeziatnikov, "that nonsense! Call the police and I'll take my oath! There only one thing I can't understand: what made him risk such a contemptible action. Oh, pitiful, despicable man!" "I can explain why he risked such an action, and if necessary, I, too, will swear to it," Raskolnikov said at last in a firm voice, and he stepped forward. He appeared to be firm and composed. Everyone felt clearly, just from way he looked, that he really knew something about it and that the mystery would be solved. "Now I can explain it all to myself," said Raskolnikov, addressing Lebeziatnikov. "From the very beginning of this whole business, I suspected that there was some terrible plot behind it. I began to suspect this due to some special circumstances known only to myself, which I will explain at once to everyone: they account for everything. Your valuable evidence has finally made everything clear to me. I beg everyone to listen. This gentleman" (he pointed to Luzhin) "was recently engaged to be married to a young lady my sister, Avdotia Romanovna Raskolnikov. But when he came to Petersburg he quarreled with me, the day before yesterday, at our first meeting and I drove him out of my room I have two witnesses to prove it. He is a very spiteful man . . . The day before yesterday I did not know that he was staying here, in your room, and that consequently on the day we quarreled the day before yesterday he saw me give Katerina Ivanovna some money for the funeral, as a friend of the late Mr. Marmeladov. He at once wrote a note to my mother and informed her that I had given away all my money, not to Katerina Ivanovna, but to Sofia Semionovna, and referred in a most contemptible way to the . . . character of Sofia Semionovna, that is, hinted at the nature of my attitude to Sofia Semionovna. All this, you understand, was carried out with the purpose of dividing me from my mother and sister, by insinuating that I was squandering on unworthy objects the money which they had sent me and which was all they had. Yesterday evening, before my mother and sister and in his presence, I declared that I had given the money to Katerina Ivanovna for the funeral and not to Sofia Semionovna and that I had no acquaintance with Sofia Semionovna and had never seen her before, indeed. At the same time I added that he, Peter Petrovich Luzhin, with all his virtues was not worth Sofia Semionovna little finger, though he spoke so badly of her. To his question would I let Sofia Semionovna sit down beside my sister I answered that I had already done so that day. Irritated that my mother and sister were unwilling to quarrel with me at his insinuations, he gradually began to be unforgivably rude to them. A final rupture took place and he was turned out of the house. All this happened yesterday evening. Now I beg you to pay close attention: consider: if he had succeeded now in proving that Sofia Semionovna was a thief, he would have shown to my mother and sister that he was almost right in his suspicions, that he had reason to be angry at my putting my sister on a level with Sofia Semionovna, that, in attacking me, he was protecting and preserving the honor of my sister, his betrothed. In fact he might even, through all this, have been able to estrange me from my family, and no doubt he hoped to be restored to favor with them; to say nothing of avenging himself on me personally, for he has grounds for supposing that the honour and happiness of Sofia Semionovna are very precious to me. That was what he was working for! That how I understand it. That the whole reason for it and there can be no other!" It was like this, or somewhat like this, that Raskolnikov wound up his speech which was followed very attentively, though often interrupted by exclamations from his audience. But in spite of interruptions he spoke clearly, calmly, exactly, firmly. His decisive voice, his tone of conviction and his stern face made a great impression on everyone. "Yes, yes, that it," Lebeziatnikov assented joyfully, "that must be it, for he asked me, as soon as Sofia Semionovna came into our room, whether you were here, whether I had seen you among Katerina Ivanovna guests. He called me aside to the window and asked me in secret. It was essential for him that you should be here! That it, that it!" Luzhin smiled contemptuously and did not speak. But he was very pale. He seemed to be considering the best means of escape. Perhaps he would have been glad to give up everything and get away, but at the moment this was scarcely possible. It would have implied admitting the truth of the accusations brought against him. Moreover, the guests, who had already been excited by drink, were now too emotional to allow it. The commissariat clerk, though indeed he had not grasped the whole position, was shouting louder than anyone and was making some suggestions which were very unpleasant to Luzhin. But not everyone there was drunk; tenants came in from all the rooms. The three Poles were tremendously excited and were continually shouting at him: "The Pan is a lajdak!"50 and muttering threats in Polish. Sonia had been listening with strained attention, though she too seemed unable to grasp it all; she seemed as though she had just returned to consciousness. She did not take her eyes off Raskolnikov, feeling that in him lay her personal safety. Katerina Ivanovna breathed hard and painfully and seemed horribly exhausted. Amalia Ivanovna stood looking more stupid than anyone, with her mouth wide open, unable to make out what had happened. She only saw that Peter Petrovich had somehow come to grief. Raskolnikov was attempting to speak again, but they did not let him. Everyone was crowding round Luzhin with threats and shouts of abuse. But Peter Petrovich was not intimidated. Seeing that his accusation of Sonia had completely failed, he reverted to insolence: "Allow me, gentlemen, allow me! Don't squeeze, let me pass!" he said, making his way through the crowd. "And no threats if you please! I assure you it will be useless, you will gain nothing by it. On the contrary, you'll have to answer, gentlemen, for violently obstructing the course of justice. The thief has been more than unmasked, and I shall prosecute. Our judges are not so blind and . . . not so drunk, and will not believe the testimony of two notorious infidels, agitators, and atheists, whose accusations are motivated by a desire for personal revenge which they are foolish enough to admit ... Yes, allow me to pass!" "Don't let me find a trace of you in my room! You will kindly leave at once, and everything between us will be at an end! When I think of the trouble I've been taking, the way I've been expounding . . . all fortnight!" "I told you myself today that I was going, when you tried to keep me; now I will simply add that you are a fool. I advise you to see a doctor for your brains and your short sight. Let me pass, gentlemen!" He forced his way through. But the commissariat clerk was unwilling to let him off so easily: he picked up a glass from the table, brandished it in the air and flung it at Peter Petrovich; but the glass flew straight at Amalia Ivanovna. She screamed, and the clerk, overbalancing, fell heavily under the table. Peter Petrovich made his way to his room and half an hour later had left the house. Sonia, timid by nature, had felt before that day that she could be ill-treated more easily than anyone, and that she could be wronged with impunity. Yet until that moment she had imagined that she might escape misfortune by care, gentleness and submissiveness before everyone. Her disappointment was too great. She could, of course, bear with patience and almost without murmur anything, even this. But at first she felt it was too bitter. Despite her triumph and her justification when her first terror and astonishment had passed and she could understand it all clearly the feeling of her helplessness and of the wrong done to her made her heart throb with anguish and she was overcome with hysterical weeping. At last, unable to bear any more, she rushed out of the room and ran home, almost immediately after Luzhin departure. When amidst loud laughter the glass flew at Amalia Ivanovna, it was more than the landlady could endure. With a shriek she rushed like a fury at Katerina Ivanovna, considering her to blame for everything. "Out of my lodgings! At once! Quick march!" And with these words she began snatching up everything she could lay her hands on that belonged to Katerina Ivanovna, and throwing it on the floor, Katerina Ivanovna, pale, almost fainting, and gasping for breath, jumped up from the bed where she had sunk in exhaustion and darted at Amalia Ivanovna. But the battle was too unequal: the landlady waved her away like a feather. "What! As though that godless calumny was not enough this vile creature attacks me! What! On the day of my husband funeral I am turned out of my lodgings! After eating my bread and salt she turns me into the street, with my orphans! Where am I to go?" wailed the poor woman, sobbing and gasping. "Good God!" she cried with flashing eyes, "is there no justice on earth? Whom should you protect if not us orphans? We shall see! There is law and justice on earth, there is, I will find it! Wait a minute, you godless creature! Polenka, stay with the children, I'll come back. Wait for me, if you have to wait in the street. We will see whether there is justice on earth!" And throwing over her head that green shawl which Marmeladov had mentioned to Raskolnikov, Katerina Ivanovna squeezed her way through the disorderly and drunken crowd of lodgers who still filled the room, and, wailing and tearful, she ran into the street with a vague intention of going somewhere at once to find justice. Polenka with the two little ones in her arms crouched, terrified, on the trunk in the corner of the room, where she waited trembling for her mother to come back. Amalia Ivanovna raged about the room, shrieking, lamenting and throwing everything she came across on the floor. The lodgers talked incoherently, some commented to the best of their ability on what had happened, others quarreled and swore at one another, while others struck up a song . . . "Now it time for me to go," thought Raskolnikov. "Well, Sofia Semionovna, we shall see what you'll say now!" And he set off in the direction of Sonia lodgings. CHAPTER FOUR RASKOLNIKOV HAD BEEN A vigorous and active champion of Sonia against Luzhin, although he had such a load of horror and anguish in his own heart. But having gone through so much in the morning, he found a sort of relief in a change of sensations, apart from the strong personal feeling which impelled him to defend Sonia. He was agitated too, especially at some moments, by the thought of his approaching interview with Sonia: he had to tell her who had killed Lizaveta. He knew the terrible suffering it would be to him and, as it were, brushed away the thought of it. So when he cried as he left Katerina Ivanovna , "Well, Sofia Semionovna, we shall see what you'll say now!" he was still superficially excited, still vigorous and defiant from his triumph over Luzhin. But, strange to say, by the time he reached Sonia lodging, he felt a sudden impotence and fear. He stood still in hesitation at the door, asking himself the strange question: "Must I tell her who killed Lizaveta?" It was a strange question because he felt at the very time not only that he could not help telling her, but also that he could not put it off. He did not yet know why it must be so, he only felt it, and the agonizing sense of his impotence before the inevitable almost crushed him. To cut short his hesitation and suffering, he quickly opened the door and looked at Sonia from the doorway. She was sitting with her elbows on the table and her face in her hands, but seeing Raskolnikov she got up at once and came to meet him as though she were expecting him. "What would have become of me but for you!" she said quickly, meeting him in the middle of the room. She had evidently wanted say this to him as soon as she could. It was what she had been waiting for. Raskolnikov went to the table and sat down on the chair from which she had only just risen. She stood facing him, two steps away, just as she had done the day before. "Well, Sonia?" he said, and felt that his voice was trembling, "it was all due to ?Äòyour social position and the habits associated with it.' Did you understand that just now?" Her face showed her distress. "Only don't talk to me as you did yesterday," she interrupted him. "Please don't start. There is misery enough without that." She quickly smiled, afraid that he might not like the reproach. "I was silly to come away from there. What is happening there now? I wanted to go back straightaway, but I kept thinking that . . . you would come." He told her that Amalia Ivanovna was turning them out of their lodging and that Katerina Ivanovna had run off somewhere "to seek justice." "My God!" cried Sonia, "let go at once . . . " And she snatched up her cape. "It always the same thing!" said Raskolnikov, irritably. "You've no thought except for them! Stay a little with me." "But . . . Katerina Ivanovna?" "You won't lose Katerina Ivanovna, you may be sure, she'll come to you herself if she run out," he added peevishly. "If she doesn't find you here, you'll be blamed for it . . . " Sonia sat down in painful suspense. Raskolnikov was silent, gazing at the floor and deliberating. "This time Luzhin did not want to prosecute you," he began, not looking at Sonia, "but if he had wanted to, if it had suited his plans, he would have sent you to prison if it had not been for Lebeziatnikov and me. Ah?" "Yes," she assented in a faint voice. "Yes," she repeated, preoccupied and distressed. "But I might easily not have been there. And it was quite an accident that Lebeziatnikov turned up." Sonia was silent. "And if you'd have gone to prison, what then? Do you remember what I said yesterday?" Again she did not answer. He waited. "I thought you would shout again, ?Äòdon't talk about it, leave off.' " Raskolnikov laughed, but in a rather forced way. "What, silence again?" he asked a minute later. "We must talk about something, you know. It would be interesting for me to know how you would solve a certain ?Äòproblem,' as Lebeziatnikov would say." (He was beginning to lose the thread.) "No, really, I am serious. Imagine, Sonia, that you had known all of Luzhin intentions beforehand. Known, that is, for a fact, that they would be the ruin of Katerina Ivanovna and the children and yourself all in one since you don't count yourself for anything Polenka, too . . . she'll go the same way. Well, if suddenly it all depended on your decision whether he or they should go on living, that is whether Luzhin should go on living and doing wicked things, or Katerina Ivanovna should die? How would you decide which of them was to die? I ask you?" Sonia looked uneasily at him. There was something peculiar in this hesitating question, which seemed to be approaching something in a roundabout way. "I felt that you were going to ask some question like that," she said, looking inquisitively at him. "I dare say you did. But how should it be answered?" "Why do you ask about what could not happen?" said Sonia reluctantly. "Then it would be better for Luzhin to go on living and doing wicked things? You haven't dared to decide even that!" "But I can't know the Divine Providence . . . And why do you ask what can't be answered? What the use of such foolish questions? How could it depend on my decision? Who has made me a judge to decide who ought to live and who ought not to live?" "Oh, if the Divine Providence is going to be mixed up in it, no-one can do anything," Raskolnikov grumbled morosely. "You'd better say straight out what you want!" Sonia cried in distress. "You are leading up to something again . . . Can you have come just to torture me?" She could not control herself and began crying bitterly. He looked at her in gloomy misery. Five minutes passed. "Of course you're right, Sonia," he said softly at last. He changed suddenly. His tone of assumed arrogance and helpless defiance was gone. Even his voice was suddenly weak. "I told you yesterday that I was not coming to ask for your forgiveness and almost the first thing I've said is to ask for your forgiveness . . . I said that about Luzhin and Providence for my own sake. I was asking for your forgiveness, Sonia . . ." He tried to smile, but there was something helpless and incomplete in his pale smile. He bowed his head and hid his face in his hands. And suddenly a strange, surprising sensation of a sort of bitter hatred for Sonia passed through his heart. As it were wondering and frightened of this sensation, he raised his head and looked intently at her; but he met her uneasy and painfully anxious eyes fixed on him; there was love in them; his hatred vanished like a phantom. It was not the real feeling; he had mistaken one feeling for the other. It only meant that the time had come. He hid his face in his hands again and bowed his head. Suddenly he turned pale, got up from his chair, looked at Sonia, and without uttering a word sat down mechanically on her bed. His sensations that moment were terribly like the moment when he had stood over the old woman with the axe in his hand and felt that "he must not lose another minute." "What the matter?" asked Sonia, dreadfully frightened. He could not utter a word. This was not at all, not at all the way he had intended to "tell" and he did not understand what was happening to him now. She went up to him, softly, sat down on the bed beside him and waited, not taking her eyes off him. Her heart throbbed and sank. It was unendurable; he turned his deadly pale face to her. His lips worked, helplessly struggling to utter something. A pang of terror passed through Sonia heart. "What the matter?" she repeated, drawing a little away from him. "Nothing, Sonia, don't be frightened . . . It nonsense. It really is nonsense, if you think of it," he muttered, like a man in delirium. "Why have I come to torture you?" he added suddenly, looking at her. "Why, really? I keep asking myself that question, Sonia . . . " He had perhaps been asking himself that question a quarter of an hour before, but now he spoke helplessly, hardly knowing what he said and feeling a continual tremor all over. "Oh, how you are suffering!" she muttered in distress, looking intently at him. "It all nonsense . . . Listen, Sonia." He suddenly smiled, a pale helpless smile for two seconds. "You remember what I meant to tell you yesterday?" Sonia waited uneasily. "I said as I went away that perhaps I was saying goodbye for ever, but that if I came today I would tell you who . . . who killed Lizaveta." She began trembling all over. "Well, here I've come to tell you." "Then you really meant it yesterday?" she whispered with difficulty. "How do you know?" she asked quickly, as though she were suddenly regaining her reason. Sonia face grew paler and paler, and she breathed painfully. "I know." She paused a minute. "Have they found him?" she asked timidly. "No." "Then how do you know about it?" she asked again, hardly audibly and again after a minute pause. He turned to her and looked very intently at her. "Guess," he said, with the same distorted helpless smile. A shudder passed over her. "But you . . . why do you frighten me like this?" she said, smiling like a child. "I must be a great friend of his . . . since I know," Raskolnikov went on, still gazing into her face, as though he could not turn his eyes away. "He . . . did not mean to kill that Lizaveta . . . he . . . killed her accidentally . . . He meant to kill the old woman when she was alone and he went there . . . and then Lizaveta came in . . . he killed her too." Another awful moment passed. Both still gazed at one another. "You can't guess, then?" he asked suddenly, feeling as though he were flinging himself down from a steeple. "N-no . . . " whispered Sonia. "Take a good look." As soon as he had said this again, the same familiar sensation froze his heart. He looked at her and all at once seemed to see in her face the face of Lizaveta. He remembered clearly the expression in Lizaveta face, when he approached her with the axe and she stepped back to the wall, putting out her hand, with childish terror in her face, looking like little children do when they begin to be frightened of something, looking intently and uneasily at what frightens them, shrinking back and holding out their little hands on the verge of tears. Almost the same thing happened now to Sonia. With the same helplessness and the same terror, she looked at him for a while and, suddenly putting out her left hand, pressed her fingers faintly against his breast and slowly began to get up from the bed, moving further from him and keeping her eyes fixed even more immovably on him. Her terror infected him. The same fear showed itself on his face. In the same way he stared at her and almost with the same childish smile. "Have you guessed?" he whispered at last. "Good God!" broke in an awful wail from her chest. She sank helplessly on the bed with her face in the pillows, but a moment later she got up, moved quickly to him, seized both his hands and, gripping them tight in her thin fingers, began looking into his face again with the same intent stare. In this last desperate look she tried to look into him and catch some last hope. But there was no hope; there was no doubt remaining; it was all true! Later on, indeed, when she recalled that moment, she thought it was strange and wondered why she had seen at once that there was no doubt. She could not have said, for instance, that she had foreseen something of the sort and yet now, as soon as he told her, she suddenly imagined that she had really foreseen this very thing. "Stop, Sonia, enough! Don't torture me," he begged her miserably. It was not at all, not at all like this that he had thought of telling her, but this is how it happened. She jumped up, seeming not to know what she was doing, and, wringing her hands, walked into the middle of the room; but quickly went back and sat down again beside him, her shoulder almost touching his. All of a sudden she started as though she had been stabbed, uttered a cry and fell on her knees before him, she did not know why. "What have you done what have you done to yourself!" she said in despair, and, jumping up, she flung herself on his neck, threw her arms round him, and held him tight. Raskolnikov drew back and looked at her with a mournful smile. "You are a strange girl, Sonia you kiss me and hug me when I tell you about that . . . You're not thinking about what you're doing." "There is no-one, no-one in the whole world now who is as unhappy as you!" she cried in a frenzy, not hearing what he said, and she suddenly broke into violent hysterical weeping. A feeling long unfamiliar to him flooded his heart and softened it at once. He did not struggle against it. Two tears started into his eyes and hung on his eyelashes. "Then you won't leave me, Sonia?" he said, looking at her almost with hope. "No, no, never, nowhere!" cried Sonia. "I will follow you, I will follow you everywhere. Oh, my God! Oh, how miserable I am! . . . Why, why didn't I know you before! Why didn't you come before? Oh, dear!" "And now I have come." "Yes, now! What to be done now! . . . Together, together!" she repeated as it were unconsciously, and she hugged him again. "I'll follow you to Siberia!" He recoiled at this, and the same hostile, almost haughty smile came to his lips. "Perhaps I don't want to go to Siberia yet, Sonia," he said. Sonia looked at him quickly. Again after her first passionate, agonizing sympathy for the unhappy man the terrible idea of the murder overwhelmed her. In his changed tone she seemed to hear the murderer speaking. She looked at him bewildered. She knew nothing as yet, why, how, with what aim the crime had been committed. Now all these questions rushed at once into her mind. And again she could not believe it: "He, he is a murderer! Could it be true?" "What the meaning of it? Where am I?" she asked in complete bewilderment, as though still unable to recover herself. "How could you, you, a man like you . . . How could you bring yourself to it? . . . What does it mean?" "To plunder, perhaps? Leave off, Sonia," he answered wearily, almost with vexation. Sonia stood as though she had been struck dumb, but suddenly she cried: "You were hungry! It was . . . to help your mother? Yes?" "No, Sonia, no," he muttered, turning away and hanging his head. "I was not as hungry as that . . . I certainly did want to help my mother, but . . . that not the real reason either . . . Don't torture me, Sonia." Sonia clasped her hands. "Could it, could it all be true? Good God, what a truth! Who could believe it? And how could you give away your last penny and still rob and murder! Ah," she cried suddenly, "that money you gave Katerina Ivanovna . . . that money . . . Can that money . . . " "No, Sonia," he broke in hurriedly, "that money was not it. Don't worry yourself! That money my mother sent me and it came when I was ill, the day I gave it to you . . . Razumikhin saw it . . . he took it for me . . . That money was mine my own." Sonia listened to him in bewilderment and did her utmost to understand him. "And that money . . . I don't even really know whether there was any money," he added softly, as though reflecting. "I took a purse off her neck, made of chamois leather . . . a purse stuffed full of something . . . but I didn't look in it; I suppose I didn't have time . . . And the things chains and trinkets I buried under a stone with the purse next morning in a yard off the V____ Prospect. They are all there now . . . " Sonia strained every nerve to listen. "Then why . . . why, you said you did it to rob, but you took nothing?" she asked quickly, catching at a straw. "I don't know . . . I haven't yet decided whether to take that money or not," he said, musing again; and, seeming to wake up with a start, he gave a brief ironic smile. "Ah, what nonsense I'm talking, eh?" The thought flashed through Sonia mind: wasn't he mad? But she dismissed it at once. "No, it was something else." She could make nothing of it, nothing. "Do you know, Sonia," he said suddenly with conviction, "let me tell you something: if I'd simply killed someone because I was hungry," laying stress on every word and looking enigmatically but sincerely at her, "I would be happy now. You must believe that! What would it matter to you," he cried a moment later with a sort of despair, "what would it matter to you if I were to confess that I did wrong! What do you gain by such a stupid triumph over me? Ah, Sonia, was it for that I've come to you today?" Again Sonia tried to say something, but did not speak. "I asked you to go with me yesterday because you are all I have left." "Go where?" asked Sonia timidly. "Not to steal and not to murder, don't be anxious," he smiled bitterly. "We are so different . . . And you know, Sonia, it only now, only at this moment that I understand where I asked you to go with me yesterday! Yesterday when I said it I did not know where. I asked you for one thing, I came to you for one thing not to leave me. You won't leave me, Sonia?" She squeezed his hand. "And why, why did I tell her? Why did I let her know?" he cried a minute later in despair, looking with infinite anguish at her. "Here you expect an explanation from me, Sonia; you are sitting and waiting for it, I can see that. But what can I tell you? You won't understand and will only suffer misery . . . on my account! Well, you are crying and embracing me again. Why do you do it? Because I couldn't bear my burden and have come to throw it on another: you suffer too, and I shall feel better! And can you love such a mean wretch?" "But aren't you suffering, too?" cried Sonia. Again a wave of the same feeling surged into his heart, and again for an instant softened it. "Sonia, I have a bad heart, take note of that. It may explain a great deal. I have come because I am bad. There are people who wouldn't have come. But I am a coward and . . . an evil wretch. But . . . never mind! That not the point. I must speak now, but I don't know how to begin." He paused and sank into thought. "Ah, we are so different," he cried again, "we are not alike. And why, why did I come? I shall never forgive myself for that." "No, no, it was a good thing you came," cried Sonia. "It better I should know, far better!" He looked at her with anguish. "What if it were really that?" he said, as though reaching a conclusion. "Yes, that what it was! I wanted to become a Napoleon, that is why I killed her . . . Do you understand now?" "N-no," Sonia whispered naively and timidly. "Just tell me, tell me, I shall understand, I shall understand it myself!" she kept begging him. "You'll understand? Very well, we shall see!" He paused and was for some time lost in meditation. "It was like this: I asked myself this question one day what if Napoleon, for instance, had happened to be in my place, and if he had not had Toulon or Egypt or the passage of Mont Blanc to start his career, but instead of all those picturesque and monumental things, there had simply been some ridiculous old hag, a pawnbroker, who had to be murdered too to get money from her trunk (for his career, you understand). Well, would he have brought himself to that, if there had been no other means? Wouldn't he have felt a pang at its being so far from monumental and . . . and sinful, too? Well, I must tell you that I worried myself so terribly over that ?Äòquestion' that I was extremely ashamed when I guessed at last (all of a sudden, somehow) that it would not have given him the least pang, that it would not even have struck him that it was not monumental . . . that he would not have seen that there was anything in it to pause over, and that, if he had had no other way, he would have strangled her in a minute without thinking about it! Well, I too . . . left off thinking about it . . . murdered her, following his example. And that exactly how it was! Do you think it funny? Yes, Sonia, the funniest thing of all is that perhaps that just how it was." Sonia did not think it at all funny. "You had better tell me straight out . . . without examples," she begged, even more timidly and scarcely audibly. He turned to her, looked sadly at her and took her hands. "You are right again, Sonia. Of course that all nonsense, it almost all just talk! You see, you know of course that my mother has scarcely anything, my sister happened to have a good education and was condemned to slave away as a governess. All their hopes were centered on me. I was a student, but I couldn't keep myself at the university and was forced for a time to leave it. Even if I had lingered on like that, in ten or twelve years I might (with luck) hope to be some sort of teacher or clerk with a salary of a thousand rubles" (he repeated it as though it were a lesson) "and by that time my mother would be worn out with grief and anxiety and I could not succeed in keeping her in comfort while my sister . . . well, my sister might well have fared worse! And it a hard thing to pass everything by all your life, to turn your back upon everything, to forget your mother and politely accept the insults inflicted on your sister. Why should you? When you have buried them to burden yourself with others wife and children and to leave them again without a penny? So I resolved to gain possession of the old woman money and to use it for my first years without worrying my mother, to keep myself at the university and for a little while after leaving it and to do this all on a broad, thorough scale, so as to build up a completely new career and enter upon a new life of independence . . . Well . . . that all ... Well, of course in killing the old woman I did wrong . . . Well, that enough." He struggled to the end of his speech in exhaustion and let his head sink. "Oh, that not it, that not it," Sonia cried in distress. "How could one . . . no, that not right, not right." "You see yourself that it not right. But I've spoken truly, it the truth." "As though that could be the truth! Good God!" "I've only killed a louse, Sonia, a useless, loathsome, harmful creature." "A human being a louse!" "I know too that it wasn't a louse," he answered, looking strangely at her. "But I am talking nonsense, Sonia," he added. "I've been talking nonsense for a long time . . . That not it, you are right there. There were quite, quite different causes for it! I haven't talked to anyone for so long, Sonia . . . My head aches dreadfully now." His eyes shone with feverish brilliance. He was almost delirious; an uneasy smile strayed on his lips. His terrible exhaustion could be seen through his excitement. Sonia saw how he was suffering. She too was growing dizzy. And he talked so strangely; it seemed somehow comprehensible, but yet . . . "But how, how! Good God!" And she wrung her hands in despair. "No, Sonia, that not it," he began again suddenly, raising his head, as though a new and sudden train of thought had struck and as it were roused him "that not it! Better . . . imagine yes, it certainly better imagine that I am vain, envious, malicious, base, vindictive and . . . well, perhaps with a tendency to insanity. (Let have it all out at once! They've talked of madness already, I noticed.) I told you just now I could not keep myself at the university. But do you know that perhaps I might have done? My mother would have sent me what I needed for the fees and I could have earned enough for clothes, boots and food, no doubt. Lessons had turned up at half a ruble. Razumikhin works! But I turned sulky and wouldn't. (Yes, sulkiness, that the right word for it!) I sat in my room like a spider. You've been in my den, you've seen it . . . And do you know, Sonia, that low ceilings and tiny rooms cramp the soul and the mind? Ah, how I hated that closet! And yet I wouldn't leave it! I wouldn't on purpose! I didn't go out for days on end, and I wouldn't work, I wouldn't even eat, I just lay there doing nothing. If Nastasia brought me anything, I ate it, if she didn't, I went all day without food; I wouldn't ask, on purpose, because of my sulkiness! At night I had no light, I lay in the dark and I wouldn't earn money for candles. I ought to have studied, but I sold my books; and the dust is lying an inch thick on the notebooks on my table. I preferred lying still and thinking. And I kept thinking . . . And I had dreams all the time, strange dreams of all sorts, no need to describe them! Only then I began to imagine that . . . No, that not it! Again I'm getting it wrong! You see, I kept asking myself then: why am I so stupid that if others are stupid and I know they are I still won't be any wiser? Then I saw, Sonia, that if you wait for everyone to get wiser it'll take too long . . . Afterwards I understood that that would never happen, that people won't change and that nobody can alter it and that it not worth wasting effort over it. Yes, that true. That the law of their nature, Sonia . . . that true! . . . And I know now, Sonia, that whoever is strong in mind and spirit will have power over them. Anyone who is very daring is right in their eyes. He who despises most things will be a lawgiver among them and he who dares most of all will be most in the right! That how it has been until now and that how it will always be. A person has to be blind not to see it!" Though Raskolnikov looked at Sonia as he said this, he no longer cared whether she understood or not. The fever had complete hold of him; he was in a sort of gloomy ecstasy (he certainly had gone too long without talking to anyone). Sonia felt that his gloomy creed had become his faith and code. "Then I understood, Sonia," he went on eagerly, "that power is only entrusted to the person who dares to bend down and pick it up. There is only one thing, one thing which is required: you just have to dare! Then for the first time in my life an idea took shape in my mind which no-one had ever thought of before me, no-one! I saw clear as day how strange it is that not a single person living in this mad world has had the daring to go straight for it all and send it flying to the devil! I . . . I wanted to have the daring . . . and I killed her. I only wanted to have the daring, Sonia! That was the whole cause of it!" "Oh hush, hush," cried Sonia, clasping her hands. "You turned away from God and God has smitten you, has given you over to the devil!" "Then Sonia, when I used to lie there in the dark and all this became clear to me, was it a temptation of the devil, eh?" "Hush, don't laugh, you blasphemer! You don't understand, you don't understand! Oh God! He won't understand!" "Hush, Sonia! I am not laughing. I know myself that it was the devil leading me. Hush, Sonia, hush!" he repeated with gloomy insistence. "I know it all, I have thought it all over and over and whispered it all over to myself, lying there in the dark . . . I've argued it all over with myself, every point of it, and I know it all, all! And how sick, how sick I was then of going over it all! I've kept wanting to forget it and make a fresh start, Sonia, and leave off thinking. And you don't suppose that I went into it headlong like a fool? I went into it like a wise man, and that was just my destruction. And you mustn't think I didn't know, for instance, that if I began to question myself as to whether I had the right to gain power I certainly didn't have the right or that, if I asked myself whether a human being is a louse, it proved that it wasn't true for me, though it might be for a man who would go straight to his goal without asking questions . . . If I worried myself all day long, wondering whether Napoleon would have done it or not, I felt clearly of course that I wasn't Napoleon. I had to endure all the agony of that battle of ideas, Sonia, and I longed to throw it off: I wanted to murder without casuistry, to murder for my own sake, for myself alone! I didn't want to lie about it even to myself. It wasn't to help my mother I did the murder that nonsense I didn't do the murder to gain wealth and power and to become a benefactor of mankind. Nonsense! I just did it; I did the murder for myself, for myself alone, and whether I became a benefactor to others, or spent my life like a spider catching men in my web and sucking the life out of men, I couldn't have cared at that moment . . . And it was not the money I wanted, Sonia, when I did it. It was not so much the money I wanted, but something else ... I know it all now . . . Understand me! Perhaps I should never have committed a murder again. I wanted to find out something else; it was something else which led me on. I wanted to find out then and there whether I was a louse like everybody else or a man. Whether I can overstep barriers or not, whether I dare bend down to pick up or not, whether I am a trembling creature or whether I have the right . . . " "To kill? Have the right to kill?" Sonia clasped her hands. "Ah, Sonia!" he cried irritably and seemed about to make some retort, but was contemptuously silent. "Don't interrupt me, Sonia. I want to prove one thing only, that the devil led me on then and he has shown me since that I did not have the right to take that path, because I am just a louse like all the rest. He was mocking me and, look, I've come to you now! Welcome your guest! If I weren't a louse, would I have come to you? Listen: when I went then to the old woman I only went to try . . . You may be sure of that!" "And you murdered her!" "But how did I murder her? Is that how men do murders? Do men go to commit a murder as I went then? I'll tell you some day how I went! Did I murder the old woman? I murdered myself, not her! I crushed myself once and for all, forever . . . But it was the devil that killed that old woman, not I. Enough, enough, Sonia, enough! Let me be!" he cried in a sudden spasm of agony, "let me be!" He leaned his elbows on his knees and squeezed his head in his hands as if in a vice. "What suffering!" A wail of anguish broke from Sonia. "Well, what should I do now?" he asked, suddenly raising his head and looking at her with a face hideously distorted by despair. "What should you do?" she cried, jumping up, and her eyes that had been full of tears suddenly began to shine. "Stand up!" (She seized him by the shoulder, he got up, looking at her almost bewildered.) "Go at once, this minute, stand at the crossroads, bow down, first kiss the earth which you have defiled and then bow down to all the world and say to all men aloud, ?ÄòI am a murderer!' Then God will send you life again. Will you go, will you go?" she asked him, trembling all over, snatching his two hands, squeezing them tight in hers and gazing at him with eyes full of fire. He was amazed at her sudden ecstasy. "You mean Siberia, Sonia? I must give myself up?" he asked gloomily. "Suffer and atone for your sin by it, that what you must do." "No! I am not going to them, Sonia!" "But how will you go on living? What will you live for?" cried Sonia, "how is it possible now? Why, how can you talk to your mother? (Oh, what will become of them now!) But what am I saying? You have abandoned your mother and your sister already. He has abandoned them already! Oh, God!" she cried, "why, he knows it all himself. How, how can he live by himself! What will become of you now?" "Don't be a child, Sonia," he said softly. "What wrong have I done them? Why should I go to them? What should I say to them? That only a phantom . . . They destroy millions themselves and look on it as a virtue. They are crooks and scoundrels, Sonia! I am not going to them. And what should I say to them that I murdered her, but did not dare to take the money and hid it under a stone?" he added with a bitter smile. "They would laugh at me, and would call me a fool for not getting it. A coward and a fool! They wouldn't understand and they don't deserve to understand. Why should I go to them? I won't. Don't be a child, Sonia . . . " "It will be too much for you to bear, too much!" she repeated, holding out her hands in despairing supplication. "Perhaps I've been unfair to myself," he observed gloomily, pondering, "perhaps after all I am a man and not a louse and I've been in too great a hurry to condemn myself. I'll make another fight for it." A haughty smile appeared on his lips. "What a burden to bear! And your whole life, your whole life!" "I shall get used to it," he said grimly and thoughtfully. "Listen," he began a minute later, "stop crying, it time to discuss the facts: I've come to tell you that the police are after me, on my trail . . . " "Ah!" Sonia cried in terror. "Well, why are you upset? You want me to go to Siberia and now you are frightened? But let me tell you: I shan't give myself up. I shall make a struggle for it and they won't do anything to me. They've no real evidence. Yesterday I was in great danger and believed I was lost; but today things are going better. All the facts they know can be explained two ways, that to say I can turn their accusations to my credit, do you understand? And I shall, for I've learnt my lesson. But they will certainly arrest me. If it had not been for something that happened, they would have done so today for certain; perhaps even now they will arrest me today . . . But it doesn't matter, Sonia; they'll let me out again . . . because there isn't any real proof against me, and there won't be, I give you my word for it. And they can't convict a man on what they have against me. Enough . . . I only tell you that you may know . . . I will try to manage somehow to put it to my mother and sister so that they won't be frightened . . . My sister future is secure, however, now, I believe . . . and my mother must be too . . . Well, that all. Be careful, though. Will you come and see me in prison when I am there?" "Oh, I will, I will." They sat side by side, both mournful and dejected, as though they had been cast up by the tempest alone on some deserted shore. He looked at Sonia and felt how great her love was for him, and strange to say he felt it suddenly burdensome and painful to be loved so much. Yes, it was a strange and awful sensation! On his way to see Sonia he had felt that all his hopes rested on her; he expected to be rid of at least part of his suffering, and now, when all her heart turned towards him, he suddenly felt that he was immeasurably unhappier than before. "Sonia," he said, "you'd better not come and see me when I am in prison." Sonia did not answer; she was crying. Several minutes passed. "Do you have you a cross on you?" she asked, as though she was suddenly thinking of it. He did not at first understand the question. "No, of course not. Here, take this one, of cypress wood. I have another, a copper one that belonged to Lizaveta. I changed with Lizaveta: she gave me her cross and I gave her my little icon. I will wear Lizaveta now and give you this. Take it . . . it mine! It mine, you know," she begged him. "We will go to suffer together, and together we will bear our cross!" "Give it to me," said Raskolnikov. He did not want to hurt her feelings. But immediately he drew back the hand he held out for the cross. "Not now, Sonia. Better later," he added to comfort her. "Yes, yes, better," she repeated with conviction, "when you go to meet your suffering, then put it on. You will come to me, I'll put it on you, we will pray and go together." At that moment someone knocked three times at the door. "Sofia Semionovna, may I come in?" they heard in a very familiar and polite voice. Sonia rushed to the door in a fright. The flaxen head of Mr. Lebeziatnikov appeared at the door. CHAPTER FIVE LEBEZIATNIKOV LOOKED ANXIOUS. "I've come to you, Sofia Semionovna," he began. "Excuse me . . . I thought I would find you," he said, addressing Raskolnikov suddenly, "that is, I didn't mean anything . . . of that sort . . . But I just thought . . . Katerina Ivanovna has gone out of her mind," he blurted out suddenly, turning from Raskolnikov to Sonia. Sonia screamed. "At least it seems so. But . . . we don't know what to do, you see! She came back she seems to have been turned out somewhere, perhaps even beaten . . . So it seems at least, . . . She had run to your father former boss, she didn't find him at home: he was dining at some other general . . . Only imagine this, she rushed off there, to the other general , and she was so persistent that she managed to get the chief to see her, had him fetched out in the middle of his dinner, it seems. You can imagine what happened. She was turned out, of course; but, according to her own story, she abused him and threw something at him. You could well believe it . . . How she wasn't arrested, I can't understand! Now she telling everyone, including Amalia Ivanovna; but it difficult to understand her, she is screaming and flinging herself about . . . Oh yes, she is shouting that since everyone has abandoned her, she will take the children and go into the street with a barrel-organ, and the children will sing and dance, and she too, and collect money, and will go every day under the general window . . . ?Äòto let everyone see well-born children, whose father was an official, begging in the street.' She keeps beating the children and they are all crying. She is teaching Lida to sing ?ÄòMy Village,' the boy to dance, Polenka the same. She is tearing up all the clothes, and making them little caps like actors; she intends to carry a tin basin and make it tinkle, instead of music . . . She won't listen to anything . . . Imagine the state of things! It beyond anything!" Lebeziatnikov would have gone on, but Sonia, who had heard him almost breathless, snatched up her cloak and hat, and ran out of the room, putting on her things as she went. Raskolnikov followed her and Lebeziatnikov came after him. "She gone mad for sure!" he said to Raskolnikov, as they went out into the street. "I didn't want to frighten Sofia Semionovna, so I said ?Äòit seemed like it,' but there isn't a doubt. They say that in tuberculosis, the tubercles sometimes occur in the brain; it a pity I know nothing about medicine. I did try to persuade her, but she wouldn't listen." "Did you talk to her about the tubercles?" "Not precisely. Besides, she wouldn't have understood! But what I say is that if you convince a person logically that they have nothing to cry about, they'll stop crying. That clear. Is it your conviction that they won't?" "Life would be too easy if that were so," answered Raskolnikov. "Excuse me, excuse me; of course it would be rather difficult for Katerina Ivanovna to understand, but do you know that in Paris they have been conducting serious experiments as to the possibility of curing the insane, simply by logical argument? One professor there, a scientific man of standing who died recently, believed in the possibility of such treatment. His idea was that there nothing really wrong with the physical organism of the insane, and that insanity is, so to say, a logical mistake, an error of judgment, an incorrect view of things. He gradually showed the madman his error and, would you believe it, they say he was successful? But as he made use of douches too; how far his success was due to that treatment remains uncertain . . . So it seems, at least." Raskolnikov had stopped listening long ago. Reaching the house where he lived, he nodded to Lebeziatnikov and went in at the gate. Lebeziatnikov woke up with a start, looked around him and hurried on. Raskolnikov went into his little room and stood still in the middle of it. Why had he come back here? He looked at the yellow, tattered paper, at the dust, at his sofa . . . From the yard came a loud continuous knocking; someone seemed to be hammering . . . He went to the window, rose on tiptoe and looked out into the yard for a long time with an air of absorbed attention. But the yard was empty and he could not see who was hammering. In the house on the left he saw some open windows; on the window-sills were pots of sickly-looking geraniums. Linen was hanging out of the windows . . . He knew it all by heart. He turned away and sat down on the sofa. Never, never had he felt so terribly alone! Yes, he felt once more that he would perhaps come to hate Sonia, now that he had made her more miserable. "Why had he gone to her to beg for her tears? What need had he to poison her life? Oh, the meanness of it!" "I'll remain alone," he said resolutely, "and she won't come to the prison!" Five minutes later he raised his head with a strange smile. That was a strange thought. "Perhaps it really would be better in Siberia," he thought suddenly. He could not have said how long he sat there with vague thoughts surging through his mind. All at once the door opened and Dunia came in. At first she stood still and looked at him from the doorway, just as he had done at Sonia; then she came in and sat down in the same place as yesterday, on the chair facing him. He looked silently and almost vacantly at her. "Don't be angry, brother; I've only come for a minute," said Dunia. Her face looked thoughtful but not stern. Her eyes were bright and soft. He saw that she too had come to him with love. "Rodia, now I know everything, everything. Dmitri Prokofich has explained and told me about all of it. They are worrying and persecuting you with a stupid and contemptible suspicion . . . Dmitri Prokofich told me that there is no danger, and that you are wrong in looking at it with such horror. I don't think so, and I fully understand how indignant you must be, and that that indignation may have a permanent effect on you. That what I am afraid of. As for your proposal to cut yourself off from us, I'm not judging you, I'm not going to judge you, and forgive me for having blamed you for it. I feel that, if I had a difficulty as great as that, I too would keep away from everyone. I shall tell mother nothing of this, but I shall talk about you continually and shall tell her from you that you will come very soon. Don't worry about her; I will set her mind at rest; but don't you try her too much come once at least; remember that she is your mother. And now I have come simply to say" (Dunia began to get up) "that if you should need me or should need . . . all my life or anything . . . call me, and I'll come. Goodbye!" She turned abruptly and went towards the door. "Dunia!" Raskolnikov stopped her and went towards her. "That Razumikhin, Dmitri Prokofich, is a very good person." Dunia flushed slightly. "Well?" she asked, waiting a moment. "He is competent, hardworking, honest and capable of real love ... Goodbye, Dunia." Dunia flushed crimson, then suddenly became alarmed. "But what does that mean, Rodia? Are we really parting for ever so you . . . can give me such a parting message?" "Never mind . . . Goodbye." He turned away, and walked to the window. She stood for a moment, looked at him uneasily, and went out troubled. No, he was not cold to her. There was an instant (the very last one) when he had longed to take her in his arms and say goodbye to her, and even to tell her, but he had not dared even to touch her hand. "Afterwards she may shudder when she remembers that I embraced her, and will feel that I stole her kiss." "And would she stand that test?" he went on a few minutes later to himself. "No, she wouldn't; girls like that can't stand things! They never do." And he thought of Sonia. There was a breath of fresh air from the window. The daylight was fading. He took up his cap and went out. He could not, of course, and would not consider how ill he was. But all this continual anxiety and agony of mind could not but affect him. And if he were not lying in high fever it was perhaps just because this continual inner strain helped to keep him on his legs and in possession of his faculties. But this artificial excitement could not last long. He wandered aimlessly. The sun was setting. A special form of misery had begun to oppress him recently. There was nothing poignant, nothing acute about it; but there was a feeling of permanence, of eternity about it; it brought a foretaste of hopeless years of this cold leaden misery, a foretaste of an eternity "on a square yard of space." Towards evening this sensation usually began to weigh on him more heavily. "With this idiotic, purely physical weakness, depending on the sunset or something, you can't help doing something stupid! You'll go to Dunia , as well as Sonia ," he muttered bitterly. He heard his name called. He looked round. Lebeziatnikov rushed up to him. "Just imagine, I've been to your room looking for you. Imagine, she carried out her plan and taken away the children. Sofia Semionovna and I have had a difficult time finding them. She is rapping on a frying-pan and making the children dance. The children are crying. They keep stopping at the crossroads and in front of the stores; there a crowd of fools running after them. Come along!" "And Sonia?" Raskolnikov asked anxiously, hurrying after Lebeziatnikov. "Just frantic. That is, it not Sofia Semionovna who frantic, but Katerina Ivanovna, though Sofia Semionovna frantic too. But Katerina Ivanovna is absolutely frantic. I'm telling you, she completely mad. They'll be taken to the police. You can imagine what an effect that'll have . . . They are on the canal bank, near the bridge now, not far from Sofia Semionovna , quite close." On the canal bank near the bridge and not even two houses away from the one where Sonia lodged, there was a crowd of people, consisting principally of street urchins. The hoarse broken voice of Katerina Ivanovna could be heard from the bridge, and it certainly was a strange spectacle likely to attract a street crowd. Katerina Ivanovna in her old dress with the green shawl, wearing a torn straw hat, crushed in a hideous way on one side, was really frantic. She was exhausted and breathless. Her wasted tubercular face looked more long-suffering than ever, and in fact out of doors in the sunshine a tubercular person always looks worse than at home. But her excitement did not flag, and every moment her irritation grew more intense. She rushed at the children, shouted at them, coaxed them, told them in front of the crowd how to dance and what to sing, began explaining to them why it was necessary and, driven to desperation by their lack of understanding, beat them . . . Then she would make a rush at the crowd; if she noticed any decently dressed person stopping to look, she immediately appealed to them to see what these children "from a genteel, one may say aristocratic, house" had been brought to. If she heard laughter or jeering in the crowd, she would rush at once at the scoffers and begin squabbling with them. Some people laughed, others shook their heads, but everyone felt curious at the sight of the madwoman with the frightened children. The frying-pan which Lebeziatnikov had mentioned was not there; at least, Raskolnikov did not see it. But instead of rapping on the pan, Katerina Ivanovna began clapping her wasted hands, when she made Lida and Kolia dance and Polenka sing. She too joined in the singing, but broke down at the second note with a terrible cough, which made her curse in despair and even shed tears. What made her most furious was the weeping and terror of Kolia and Lida. Some effort had been made to dress the children up as street singers are dressed. The boy had on a turban made of something red and white to make him look like a Turk. There had been no costume for Lida; she just had a red knitted cap, or rather a night cap that had belonged to Marmeladov, decorated with a broken piece of white ostrich feather, which had been Katerina Ivanovna grandmother and had been preserved as a family possession. Polenka was in her everyday dress; she looked in timid perplexity at her mother, and kept at her side, hiding her tears. She dimly realized her mother condition, and looked uneasily about her. She was extremely frightened of the street and the crowd. Sonia followed Katerina Ivanovna, weeping and beseeching her to return home, but Katerina Ivanovna was not to be persuaded. "Leave off, Sonia, leave off," she shouted, speaking fast, panting and coughing. "You don't know what you're asking me to do; you're like a child! I've told you before that I am not going back to that drunken German. Let everyone, let all of Petersburg see the children begging in the streets, though their father was an honorable man who served all his life in truth and fidelity and, you might say, died in service." (Katerina Ivanovna had by now invented this fantastic story and thoroughly believed it.) "Let that wretch of a general see it! And, Sonia, you're being silly: what do we have to eat? Tell me that. We have worried you enough, I won't go on! Ah, Rodion Romanovich, is that you?" she cried, seeing Raskolnikov and rushing up to him. "Explain to this silly girl, please, that nothing better could be done! Even organ-grinders earn their living, and everyone will see at once that we are different, that we are an honorable and bereaved family reduced to beggary. And that general will lose his post, you'll see! We shall perform under his windows every day, and if the Tsar drives by, I'll fall on my knees, put the children before me, show them to him, and say ?ÄòDefend us, father.' He is the father of the fatherless, he is merciful, he'll protect us, you'll see, and that wretch of a general . . . Lida, tenezvous droite!51 Kolia, you'll be dancing again. Why are you whimpering? Whimpering again! What are you afraid of, stupid? Goodness, what should I do with them, Rodion Romanovich? If you only knew how stupid they are! What can you do with such children?" And she, almost crying herself which did not stop her uninterrupted, rapid flow of talk pointed to the crying children. Raskolnikov tried to persuade her to go home and even said, hoping to work on her vanity, that it was unseemly for her to be wandering about the streets like an organ-grinder, as she was intending to become the principal of a boarding-school. "A boarding-school, ha-ha-ha! A castle in the air," cried Katerina Ivanovna, her laugh ending in a cough. "No, Rodion Romanovich, that dream is over! Everyone has abandoned us! . . . And that general ... You know, Rodion Romanovich, I threw an ink spot at him it happened to be standing in the waiting-room by the paper where you sign your name. I wrote my name, threw it at him and ran away. Oh the scoundrels, the scoundrels! But enough of them, now I'll provide for the children myself, I won't bow down to anybody! She has had to bear enough for us!" she pointed to Sonia. "Polenka, how much have you got? Show me! What, only two farthings! Oh, the mean wretches! They give us nothing, only run after us, putting their tongues out. There, what is that blockhead laughing at?" (She pointed to a man in the crowd.) "It all because Kolia here is so stupid; I have such problems with him. What do you want, Polenka? Tell me in French, parlez-moi fran?ßais.52 But I've taught you, you know some phrases. How else are you going to show that you are from a good family, that you're well-bred children, and not at all like other organ-grinders? We aren't going to have a Punch and Judy show in the street, we're going to sing a genteel song . . . Ah, yes, . . . What are we going to sing? You keep putting me out, but we . . . you see, we are standing here, Rodion Romanovich, to find something to sing and get money, something Kolia can dance to . . . Because, as you can imagine, our performance is all improvised ... We must talk it over and rehearse it all thoroughly, and then we shall go to Nevsky, where there are far more people from fine society, and we shall be noticed at once. Lida only knows ?ÄòMy Village,' nothing apart from ?ÄòMy Village,' and everyone sings that. We must sing something far more genteel ... Well, have you thought of anything, Polenka? If only you'd help your mother! My memory completely gone, or I would have thought of something. We really can't sing ?ÄòAn Hussar.' Ah, let sing in French, ?ÄòCinq sous,'53 I have taught it to you, I have taught it you. And as it is in French, people will see at once that you are children from a good family, and that will be much more touching . . . You might sing ?ÄòMarlborough s'en va-t-en guerre,'54 for that quite a child song and is sung as a lullaby in all the aristocratic houses. Marlborough s'en va-t-en guerre Ne sait quand reviendra . . . " 55 she began singing. "But no, better sing ?ÄòCinq sous.' Now, Kolia, your hands on your hips, make haste, and you, Lida, keep turning the other way, and Polenka and I will sing and clap our hands! Cinq sous, cinq sous Pour monter notre m?(c)nage. 56 (Cough-cough-cough!) Put your dress straight, Polenka, it slipped down on your shoulders," she observed, panting from coughing. "Now it particularly necessary to behave nicely and genteelly, so that everyone will see that you are well-born children. I said at the time that the bodice should be cut longer, and made of two widths. It was your fault, Sonia, with your advice to make it shorter, and now you see the child is seriously deformed by it . . . Why, you're all crying again! What the matter, stupids? Come, Kolia, begin. Hurry up, hurry up! Oh, what an unbearable child! Cinq sous, cinq sous. A policeman again! What do you want?" A policeman was indeed forcing his way through the crowd. But at that moment a gentleman in civilian uniform and an overcoat a solid-looking official of about fifty with a decoration on his neck (which delighted Katerina Ivanovna and had its effect on the policeman) approached and wordlessly handed her a green three-ruble note. His face wore a look of genuine sympathy. Katerina Ivanovna took it and gave him a polite, even ceremonious, bow. "I thank you, honored sir," she began loftily. "The causes that have induced us (take the money, Polenka: you see there are generous and honorable people who are ready to help a poor gentlewoman in distress). You see, honored sir, these orphans of good family I might even say of aristocratic connections and that wretch of a gen- eral sat eating grouse . . . and stamped at my disturbing him. ?ÄòYour excellency,' I said, ?Äòprotect the orphans: you knew my late husband, Semion Zakharovich, and on the very day of his death the basest of scoundrels slandered his only daughter.' . . . That policeman again! Protect me," she cried to the official. "Why is that policeman edging up to me? We have only just run away from one of them. What do you want, fool?" "It forbidden in the streets. You mustn't make a disturbance." "It you who are making a disturbance. It just as if I were grinding an organ. What business is it of yours?" "You have to get a license for an organ, and you haven't got one, and that way you collect a crowd. Where do you live?" "What, a license?" wailed Katerina Ivanovna. "I buried my husband today. Why do I need a license?" "Calm yourself, madam, calm yourself," began the official. "Come along; I will escort you . . . This is no place for you in the crowd. You are ill." "Honored sir, honored sir, you don't know," screamed Katerina Ivanovna. "We are going to the Nevsky . . . Sonia, Sonia! Where is she? She is crying too! What the matter with you all? Kolia, Lida, where are you going?" she cried suddenly in alarm. "Oh, silly children! Kolia, Lida, where are they off to? . . . " Kolia and Lida, scared out of their wits by the crowd, and their mother mad pranks, suddenly seized each other by the hand, and ran off at the sight of the policeman who wanted to take them away somewhere. Weeping and wailing, poor Katerina Ivanovna ran after them. She was a pitiful and indecent spectacle when she ran, weeping and panting for breath. Sonia and Polenka rushed after them. "Bring them back, bring them back, Sonia! Oh stupid, ungrateful children! . . . Polenka! catch them . . . It for your sakes I . . . " She stumbled as she ran and fell down. "She cut herself, she bleeding! Oh, dear!" cried Sonia, bending over her. All ran up and crowded round. Raskolnikov and Lebeziatnikov were the first at her side, the official too hastened up, and behind him the policeman who muttered, "Bother!" with a gesture of impatience, feeling that the job was going to be a troublesome one. "Pass on! Pass on!" he said to the crowd that pressed forward. "She dying," someone shouted. "She gone out of her mind," said another. "Lord have mercy on us," said a woman, crossing herself. "Have they caught the little girl and the boy? They're being brought back, the elder one got them . . . Ah, the wicked little things!" When they examined Katerina Ivanovna carefully, they saw that she had not cut herself against a stone, as Sonia thought, but that the blood that stained the pavement red was from her chest. "I've seen that before," muttered the official to Raskolnikov and Lebeziatnikov; "that tuberculosis; the blood flows and chokes the patient. I saw the same thing with a relative of my own not long ago . . . nearly a pint of blood, all in a minute . . . What to be done though? She is dying." "This way, this way, to my room!" Sonia implored. "I live here! . . . See, that house, the second from here . . . Come to me, make haste," she turned from one to the other. "Send for the doctor! Oh, dear!" Thanks to the official efforts, this plan was adopted, the policeman even helping to carry Katerina Ivanovna. She was carried to Sonia room, almost unconscious, and laid on the bed. The blood was still flowing, but she seemed to be coming round. Raskolnikov, Lebeziatnikov, and the official accompanied Sonia into the room and were followed by the policeman, who first drove back the crowd which followed right up to the door. Polenka came in holding Kolia and Lida, who were trembling and weeping. Several people came in too from the Kapernaumovs' room; the landlord, a lame one-eyed man of strange appearance with whiskers and hair that stood up like a brush, his wife, a woman with a constantly scared expression, and several open-mouthed children with wonder-struck faces. Among these, Svidrigailov suddenly made his appearance. Raskolnikov looked at him with surprise, not understanding where he had come from and not having noticed him in the crowd. A doctor and priest wore spoken of. The official whispered to Raskolnikov that he thought it was too late now for the doctor, but he ordered him to be sent for. Kapernaumov ran himself. Meanwhile Katerina Ivanovna had regained her breath. The bleeding ceased for a time. She looked with sick but intent and penetrating eyes at Sonia, who stood pale and trembling, wiping the sweat from her brow with a handkerchief. At last she asked to be raised. They sat her up on the bed, supporting her on both sides. "Where are the children?" she said in a faint voice. "You've brought them, Polenka? Oh the silly idiots! Why did you run away . . . Oh!" Once more her parched lips were covered with blood. She moved her eyes, looking around her. "So that how you live, Sonia! Never once have I been in your room." She looked at her with a face of suffering. "We have been your ruin, Sonia. Polenka, Lida, Kolia, come here! Well, here they are, Sonia, take them all! I hand them over to you, I've had enough! The ball is over. (Cough!) Lay me down, let me die in peace." They laid her back on the pillow. "What, the priest? I don't want him. You haven't got a ruble to spare. I have no sins. God must forgive me without that. He knows how I have suffered . . . And if He won't forgive me, I don't care!" She sank more and more into uneasy delirium. At times she shuddered, turned her eyes from side to side, recognized everyone for a minute, but at once sank into delirium again. Her breathing was hoarse and difficult, and there was a sort of a rattle in her throat. "I said to him, your excellency," she forced out, gasping after each word. "That Amalia Ludwigovna, ah! Lida, Kolia, hands on your hips, hurry up! Glissez, glissez!57 Pas de basque! Tap with your heels, be a graceful child! Du hast Diamanten und Perlen 58 "What next? That what we should sing. Du hast die sch??nsten Augen M?§dchen, was willst du mehr? 59 "What an idea! Was willst du mehr.What things the fool invents! Ah, yes! In the heat of midday in the vale of Dagestan. "Ah, how I loved it! I loved that song to distraction, Polenka! Your father, you know, used to sing it when we were engaged . . . Oh those days! Oh that the thing for us to sing! How does it go? I've forgotten. Remind me! How was it?" She was violently excited and tried to sit up. At last, in a horribly hoarse, broken voice, she began, shrieking and gasping at every word, with a look of growing terror. "In the heat of midday! . . . in the vale! . . . of Dagestan! . . . With lead in my breast! . . . "60 "Your excellency!" she wailed suddenly with a heartrending scream and a flood of tears, "protect the orphans! You have been their father guest . . . aristocratic, you might say . . . " She started, regaining consciousness, and gazed at everyone with a sort of terror, but at once recognized Sonia. "Sonia, Sonia!" she articulated softly and caressingly, as though surprised to find her there. "Sonia darling, are you here, too?" They lifted her up again. "Enough! It over! Farewell, poor thing! I am done for! I am broken!" she cried with vindictive despair, and her head fell heavily back on the pillow. She sank into unconsciousness again, but this time it did not last long. Her pale, yellow, wasted face dropped back, her mouth fell open, her leg moved convulsively, she gave a deep, deep sigh and died. Sonia fell upon her, flung her arms around her, and remained motionless with her head pressed to the dead woman wasted chest. Polenka threw herself at her mother feet, kissing them and weeping violently. Though Kolia and Lida did not understand what had happened, they had a feeling that it was something terrible; they put their hands on each other little shoulders, stared straight at one another and both at once opened their mouths and began screaming. They were both still in their fancy dress; one in a turban, the other in the cap with the ostrich feather. And how did "the certificate of merit" come to be on the bed beside Katerina Ivanovna? It lay there by the pillow; Raskolnikov saw it. He walked away to the window. Lebeziatnikov skipped up to him. "She is dead," he said. "Rodion Romanovich, I must have a word with you," said Svidrigailov, coming up to them. Lebeziatnikov at once made room for him and delicately withdrew. Svidrigailov drew Raskolnikov further away. "I will undertake all the arrangements, the funeral and all that. You know it a question of money and, as I told you, I have plenty to spare. I will put those two little ones and Polenka into some good orphanage, and I will settle fifteen hundred rubles to be paid to each on coming of age, so that Sofia Semionovna need not worry about them. And I will pull her out of the mud too, for she is a good girl, isn't she? So tell Avdotia Romanovna that that is how I am spending her ten thousand." "What is your motive for such benevolence?" asked Raskolnikov. "Ah! You skeptical person!" laughed Svidrigailov. "I told you I had no need of that money. Won't you admit that I'm just doing it for the sake of human kindness? She wasn't ?Äòa louse,' you know" (he pointed to the corner where the dead woman lay), "was she, like some old pawnbroker woman? Come, you'll agree, is Luzhin to go on living, and doing wicked things or is she to die? And if I didn't help them, Polenka would go the same way." He said this with an air of a sort of gay winking slyness, keeping his eyes fixed on Raskolnikov, who turned white and cold, hearing the phrases which he had used with Sonia. He quickly stepped back and looked wildly at Svidrigailov. "How do you know?" he whispered, hardly able to breathe. "I live here at Madame Resslich , the other side of the wall. Here is Kapernaumov, and there lives Madame Resslich, an old and devoted friend of mine. I am a neighbor." "You?" "Yes," continued Svidrigailov, shaking with laughter. "I assure you on my honor, dear Rodion Romanovich, that you have interested me enormously. I told you we'd become friends, I predicted it. Well, here we have. And you will see what an accommodating person I am. You'll see you can get on with me!" PART SIX CHAPTER ONE A STRANGE PERIOD BEGAN for Raskolnikov: it was as though a fog had fallen upon him and wrapped him in a dreary solitude from which there was no escape. Recalling that period long afterwards, he believed that his mind had been clouded at times, and that it had continued so, with intervals, until the final catastrophe. He was convinced that he had been mistaken about many things at that time, for instance about the date of certain events. Anyway, when he tried later on to piece his recollections together, he learnt a great deal about himself from what other people told him. He had mixed up incidents and had explained events as due to circumstances which existed only in his imagination. At times he was a prey to agonies of morbid uneasiness, amounting sometimes to panic. But he remembered, too, moments, hours, perhaps whole days, of complete apathy, which came upon him as a reaction to his previous terror and might be compared with the abnormal insensibility which is sometimes seen in the dying. He seemed to be trying in that latter stage to escape from a full and clear understanding of his position. Certain essential facts which required immediate consideration were particularly irritating to him. How glad he would have been to be free from some of his worries which, if he had neglected them, would have threatened him with complete, inevitable ruin. He was particularly worried about Svidrigailov, he might be said to be permanently thinking of Svidrigailov. From the time of Svidrigailov excessively menacing and unmistakable words in Sonia room at the moment of Katerina Ivanovna death, the normal working of his mind seemed to break down. But although this new fact caused him extreme uneasiness, Raskolnikov was in no hurry to explain it. At times, finding himself in a solitary and remote part of the town, in some wretched eating-house, sitting alone lost in thought, hardly knowing how he had come there, he suddenly thought of Svidrigailov. He recognized suddenly, clearly, and with dismay that he ought at once to come to an understanding with that man and to make what terms he could. Walking outside the city gates one day, he actually imagined that they had fixed a meeting there, that he was waiting for Svidrigailov. Another time he woke up before daybreak lying on the ground under some bushes and could not at first understand how he had come there. But during the two or three days after Katerina Ivanovna death, he had two or three times met Svidrigailov in the building where Sonia lived, to which he had gone aimlessly for a moment. They exchanged a few words and made no reference to the vital subject, as though they had tacitly agreed not to speak of it for a period. Katerina Ivanovna body was still lying in the coffin, Svidrigailov was busy making arrangements for the funeral. Sonia too was very busy. At their last meeting Svidrigailov informed Raskolnikov that he had made an arrangement, and a very satisfactory one, for Katerina Ivanovna children; that he had, through certain connections, succeeded in getting hold of certain people with whose help the three orphans could be at once placed in very suitable institutions; that the money he had given them had been of great assistance, as it is much easier to place orphans who have some kind of property than destitute ones. He said something too about Sonia and promised to come himself in a day or two to see Raskolnikov, mentioning that "he would like to consult with him, that there were things they must talk over . . . " This conversation took place in the passage on the stairs. Svidrigailov looked intently at Raskolnikov and suddenly, after a brief pause, dropping his voice, asked: "But how is it, Rodion Romanovich; you don't seem yourself? You look and you listen, but you don't seem to understand. Cheer up! We'll talk things over; I'm just sorry, I've so much of my own business and of other people to do. Ah, Rodion Romanovich," he added suddenly, "what everyone needs is fresh air, fresh air . . . more than anything!" He moved to one side to make way for the priest and server, who were coming up the stairs. They had come for the requiem service. On Svidrigailov orders it was sung twice a day, punctually. Svidrigailov went his way. Raskolnikov stood still for a moment, thought, and followed the priest into Sonia room. He stood at the door. They began to sing the service quietly, slowly and mournfully. From his childhood the thought of death and the presence of death had been something oppressive and mysteriously awful; and it was a long time since he had heard the requiem service. And there was something else here as well, too awful and disturbing. He looked at the children: they were all kneeling by the coffin; Polenka was weeping. Behind them Sonia prayed, softly, and, as it were, timidly weeping. "For the last two days she hasn't said a word to me, she hasn't glanced at me," Raskolnikov thought suddenly. The sunlight was bright in the room; the incense rose in clouds; the priest read, "Give rest, oh Lord . . . " Raskolnikov stayed throughout the service. As he blessed them and took his leave, the priest looked round strangely. After the service, Raskolnikov went up to Sonia. She took both his hands and let her head sink on his shoulder. This slight friendly gesture bewildered Raskolnikov. It seemed strange to him that there was no trace of repugnance, no trace of disgust, no tremor in her hand. It was the furthest limit of self-abnegation, at least so he interpreted it. Sonia said nothing. Raskolnikov pressed her hand and went out. He felt very miserable. If it had been possible to escape to some solitude, he would have considered himself lucky, even if he had to spend his whole life there. But although he had almost always been by himself recently, he had never been able to feel alone. Sometimes he walked out of the town onto the high road, once he had even reached a little wood, but the lonelier the place was, the more he seemed to be aware of an uneasy presence near him. It did not frighten him, but greatly annoyed him, so he made haste to return to the town, to mingle with the crowd, to go into restaurants and taverns, to walk in busy streets. There he felt easier and even more solitary. One day at dusk he sat for an hour listening to songs in a tavern and he remembered that he actually enjoyed it. But at last he had suddenly felt the same uneasiness again, as though his conscience was smiting him. "Here I sit listening to singing, is that what I ought to be doing?" he thought. Yet he felt at once that that was not the only cause of his uneasiness; there was something requiring immediate decision, but it was something he could not clearly understand or put into words. It was a hopeless tangle. "No, better have the struggle again! Better have Porfiry again . . . or Svidrigailov . . . Better have some challenge again . . . some attack. Yes, yes!" he thought. He went out of the tavern and rushed away almost at a run. The thought of Dunia and his mother suddenly reduced him almost to a panic. That night he woke up before morning among some bushes in Krestovsky Island, trembling all over with fever; he walked home, and it was early morning when he arrived. After some hours' sleep the fever left him, but he woke up late, at two o'clock in the afternoon. He remembered that Katerina Ivanovna funeral had been fixed for that day, and was glad that he was not present at it. Nastasia brought him some food; he ate and drank with appetite, almost with greediness. His head was fresher and he was calmer than he had been for the last three days. He even felt a passing sense of amazement at his previous panic attacks. The door opened and Razumikhin came in. "Ah, he eating; then he not ill," said Razumikhin. He took a chair and sat down at the table opposite Raskolnikov. He was troubled and did not attempt to conceal it. He spoke with evident annoyance, but without hurrying or raising his voice. He looked as though he had some special fixed determination. "Listen," he began resolutely. "As far as I'm concerned, you can all go to hell, but from what I see, it clear to me that I can't make head or tail of it; please don't think I've come to ask you questions. I don't want to know, damn it! If you begin telling me your secrets, I don't think I'd stay to listen, I'd go away cursing. I have only come to find out once for all whether it a fact that you are mad? There is a conviction in the air that you are mad or very nearly so. I admit I've been disposed to that opinion myself, judging from your stupid, repulsive and quite inexplicable actions, and from your recent behavior to your mother and sister. Only a monster or a madman could treat them as you have; so you must be mad." "When did you see them last?" "Just now. Haven't you seen them since then? What have you been doing with yourself? Tell me, please. I've been to see you three times already. Your mother has been seriously ill since yesterday. She had made up her mind to come to you; Avdotia Romanovna tried to prevent her; she wouldn't hear a word. ?ÄòIf he is ill, if his mind is giving way, who can look after him like his mother can?' she said. We all came here together, we couldn't let her come alone all the way. We kept begging her to be calm. We came in, you weren't here; she sat down, and stayed ten minutes, while we stood waiting in silence. She got up and said: ?ÄòIf he gone out, that is, if he is well, and has forgotten his mother, it humiliating and unseemly for his mother to stand at his door begging for kindness.' She returned home and took to her bed; now she is in a fever. ?ÄòI see,' she said, ?Äòthat he has time for his girl.' She means by your girl Sofia Semionovna, your betrothed or your mistress, I don't know. I went at once to Sofia Semionovna because I wanted to know what was going on. I looked round, I saw the coffin, the children crying, and Sofia Semionovna getting them to try on mourning dresses. No sign of you. I apologized, went away, and reported it all to Avdotia Romanovna. So that all nonsense and you haven't got a girl; the most likely thing is that you are mad. But here you sit, guzzling boiled beef as though you'd not had a bite for three days. Though as far as that goes, madmen eat too, but though you have not said a word to me yet . . . you are not mad! That I'd swear! Above all, you are not mad. So you can go to hell, all of you, because there some mystery, some secret about it, and I don't intend to worry my brains over your secrets. So I've just come to swear at you," he finished, getting up, "to relieve my mind. And I know what to do now." "What do you intend to do now?" "What business is it of yours what I intend to do?" "You are going out for a drinking bout." "How . . . how did you know?" "Well, it pretty clear." Razumikhin paused for a minute. "You've always been a very rational person and you've never been mad, never," he observed suddenly with warmth. "You're right: I shall drink. Goodbye!" And he moved to go out. "I was talking with my sister the day before yesterday I think it was about you, Razumikhin." "About me! But . . . where can you have seen her the day before yesterday?" Razumikhin stopped short and even turned a little pale. His heart was throbbing slowly and violently. "She came here by herself, sat there and talked to me." "She did!" "Yes." "What did you say to her . . . I mean, about me?" "I told her you were a very good, honest, and industrious man. I didn't tell her you love her, because she knows that herself." "She knows that herself?" "Well, it pretty clear. Wherever I go, whatever happens to me, you will remain to look after them. I, so to speak, give them into your keeping, Razumikhin. I say this because I know quite well how you love her, and am convinced of the purity of your heart. I know that she too may love you and perhaps does love you already. Now decide for yourself, as you know best, whether you need go in for a drinking bout or not." "Rodia! You see . . . well . . . Ah, damn it! But where do you intend to go? Of course, if it all a secret, never mind . . . But I . . . I shall find out the secret . . . and I am sure that it must be some ridiculous nonsense and that you've made it all up. Anyway you are a wonderful person, a wonderful person!" . . . "That was just what I wanted to add, only you interrupted, that that was a very good decision of yours not to find out these secrets. Leave it to time, don't worry about it. You'll know it all in time when it all revealed. Yesterday a man said to me that what a man needs is fresh air, fresh air, fresh air. I intend to go to him directly to find out what he meant by that." Razumikhin stood lost in thought and excitement, making a silent conclusion. "He a political conspirator! He must be. And he on the eve of some desperate step, that certain. It can only be that! And . . . and Dunia knows," he thought suddenly. "So Avdotia Romanovna comes to see you," he said, weighing each syllable, "and you're going to see a man who says we need more air, and so of course that letter . . . that too must have something to do with it," he concluded to himself. "What letter?" "She got a letter today. It upset her very much very much indeed. Too much so. I started talking about you, she begged me not to. Then . . . then she said that perhaps we should very soon have to part . . . then she began warmly thanking me for something; then she went to her room and locked herself in." "She got a letter?" Raskolnikov asked thoughtfully. "Yes, and you didn't know? Hm . . . " They were both silent. "Goodbye, Rodion. There was a time, my friend, when I . . . Never mind, goodbye. You see, there was a time ... Well, goodbye! I must be off too. I am not going to drink. There no need now . . . That all stupid!" He hurried out; but when he had almost closed the door behind him, he suddenly opened it again, and said, looking away: "Oh, by the way, do you remember that murder, you know Porfiry , that old woman? Do you know the murderer has been found, he has confessed and given the proofs. It one of those workmen, the painter, just imagine! Do you remember I defended them here? Would you believe it, that whole scene of fighting and laughing with his companion on the stairs while the porter and the two witnesses were going up, he put on deliberately to disarm suspicion. The cunning, the presence of mind that little dog had! It can hardly be credited; but it his own explanation, he has confessed it all. And what a fool I was about it! Well, he simply a genius of hypocrisy and resourcefulness in disarming the suspicions of the lawyers so there nothing much to wonder at, I suppose! Of course, people like that are always possible. And the fact that he couldn't keep up the character, but confessed, makes him easier to believe in. But what a fool I was! I was frantically supporting them!" "Tell me, please, who did you hear that from, and why does it interest you so much?" Raskolnikov asked with unmistakable agitation. "What next? You ask me why it interests me! . . . Well, I heard it from Porfiry, among others . . . It was from him I heard almost everything about it." "From Porfiry?" "From Porfiry." "What . . . what did he say?" Raskolnikov asked in dismay. "He gave me a brilliant explanation of it. Psychologically, after his fashion." "He explained it? Explained it himself?" "Yes, yes; goodbye. I'll tell you all about it another time, but now I'm busy. There was a time when I imagined . . . But no matter, another time! . . . What need is there for me to drink now? You have made me drunk without wine. I am drunk, Rodia! Goodbye, I'm going. I'll come again very soon." He went out. "He a political conspirator, there no doubt about it," Razumikhin decided, as he slowly descended the stairs. "And he drawn his sister in; that entirely, entirely in keeping with Avdotia Romanovna character. There are meetings between them! . . . She hinted at it too . . . So many of her words . . . and hints . . . have implied that! And how else can this whole tangle be explained? Hm! And I was almost thinking . . . Goodness, what was I thinking! Yes, I took leave of my senses and I wronged him! It was his doing, under the lamp in the corridor that day. Foo! What a crude, nasty, vile idea on my part! Nikolai is a real godsend, for confessing . . . And how clear everything is now! His illness then, all his strange actions . . . before this, in the university, how pessimistic he used to be, how gloomy . . . But what the meaning now of that letter? There something in that, too, perhaps. Who was it from? I suspect . . . ! No, I must find out!" He thought of Dunia, realizing everything he had heard and his heart throbbed, and he suddenly broke into a run. As soon as Razumikhin went out, Raskolnikov got up, turned to the window, walked from one corner to another, as though forgetting the smallness of his room, and sat down again on the sofa. He felt, so to speak, renewed; again the struggle, so a means of escape had come. "Yes, a means of escape had come! It had been too stifling, too cramping, the burden had been too agonizing. A lethargy had come upon him at times. From the moment of the scene with Nikolai at Porfiry he had been suffocating, penned in without any hope of escape. After Nikolai confession, on that very day had come the scene with Sonia; his behavior and his last words had been utterly unlike anything he could have imagined beforehand; he had grown feebler, instantly and fundamentally! And he had agreed at the time with Sonia, he had agreed in his heart he could not go on living alone with such a thing on his mind! "And Svidrigailov was a riddle . . . He worried him, that was true, but somehow not on the same point. He might still have a struggle to come with Svidrigailov. Svidrigailov, too, might be a means of escape; but Porfiry was a different matter. "And so Porfiry himself had explained it to Razumikhin, had explained it psychologically. He had started bringing in his damned psychology again! Porfiry? But to think that Porfiry should for a moment believe that Nikolai was guilty, after what had passed between them before Nikolai appearance, after that one-on-one interview, which could have only one explanation? (During those days Raskolnikov had often recalled passages in that scene with Porfiry; he could not bear to let his mind rest on it.) Such words, such gestures had passed between them, they had exchanged such glances, things had been said in such a tone and had reached such a pass, that Nikolai, whom Porfiry had seen through at the first word, at the first gesture, could not have shaken his conviction. "And to think that even Razumikhin had begun to suspect! The scene in the corridor under the lamp had produced its effect then. He had rushed to Porfiry . . . But what had induced the latter to receive him like that? What had been his aim in putting Razumikhin off with Nikolai? He must have some plan; there was some design, but what was it? It was true that a long time had passed since that morning too long a time and no sight or sound of Porfiry. Well, that was a bad sign . . . " Raskolnikov took his cap and went out of the room, still pondering. It was the first time for a long while that he had felt clear in his mind, at least. "I must settle Svidrigailov," he thought, "and as soon as possible; he, too, seems to be waiting for me to come to him of my own accord." And at that moment there was such a rush of hate in his weary heart that he might have killed either of those two Porfiry or Svidrigailov. At least he felt that he would be capable of doing it later, if not now. "We shall see, we shall see," he repeated to himself. But no sooner had he opened the door than he stumbled upon Porfiry himself in the passage. He was coming in to see him. Raskolnikov was dumbfounded for a minute, but only for a minute. Strange to say, he was not very astonished to see Porfiry and was scarcely even afraid of him. He was simply startled, but was quickly, instantly, on his guard. "Perhaps this will mean the end? But how could Porfiry have approached so quietly, like a cat, so he would hear nothing? Could he have been listening at the door?" "You didn't expect a visitor, Rodion Romanovich," Porfiry explained, laughing. "I've been meaning to look in for a long time; I was passing by and thought why not go in for five minutes! Are you going out? I won't keep you long. Just let me have one cigarette." "Sit down, Porfiry Petrovich, sit down." Raskolnikov gave his visitor a seat with so pleased and friendly an expression that he would have marveled at himself if he could have seen it. The final moment had come, the last drops had to be drained! So a man will sometimes go through half an hour of mortal terror with a brigand, yet when the knife is at his throat at last, he feels no fear. Raskolnikov seated himself directly facing Porfiry, and looked at him without flinching. Porfiry screwed up his eyes and began lighting a cigarette. "Say something, say something," seemed as though it would burst from Raskolnikov heart. "Come on, why aren't you saying anything?" CHAPTER TWO "AH THESE CIGARETTES !" PORFIRY Petrovich said at last, having lit one. "They are pernicious, absolutely pernicious, and yet I can't give them up! I cough, I begin to have a tickle in my throat and difficulty breathing. You know I am a coward, I went recently to Dr. B___n;61 he always gives at least half an hour to each patient. He really laughed looking at me; he gave me an inspection: ?ÄòTobacco bad for you,' he said, ?Äòyour lungs are affected.' But how am I going to give it up? What is there to take its place? I don't drink, that the problem, he-he-he, that I don't. Everything is relative, Rodion Romanovich, everything is relative!" "He playing his professional tricks again," Raskolnikov thought with disgust. All the circumstances of their last interview suddenly came back to him, and he felt a rush of the feeling that had come upon him then. "I came to see you the day before yesterday, in the evening; you didn't know?" Porfiry Petrovich went on, looking round the room. "I came into this very room. I was passing by, just as I did today, and I thought I'd return your call. I walked in as your door was wide open, I looked round, waited and went out without leaving my name with your servant. Don't you lock your door?" Raskolnikov face grew more and more gloomy. Porfiry seemed to guess his state of mind. "I've come to have it out with you, Rodion Romanovich, my dear friend! I owe you an explanation and I must give it to you," he continued with a slight smile, just patting Raskolnikov knee. But almost at the same instant a serious and careworn look came into his face; to his surprise Raskolnikov saw a touch of sadness in it. He had never seen and never suspected such an expression on his face. "A strange scene passed between us last time we met, Rodion Romanovich. Our first interview, too, was a strange one; but then . . . and one thing after another! This is the point: I have perhaps acted unfairly to you; I feel it. Do you remember how we parted? Your nerves were unhinged and your knees were shaking and so were mine. And, you know, our behavior was indecent, even ungentlemanly. And yet we are gentlemen, above all, in any case, gentlemen; that must be understood. Do you remember what we came to? . . . It was absolutely indecent." "What is he up to, what does he take me for?" Raskolnikov asked himself in amazement, raising his head and looking with open eyes at Porfiry. "I've decided openness is better between us," Porfiry Petrovich went on, turning his head away and dropping his eyes, as though unwilling to disconcert his former victim and as though he were setting aside his former cunning. "Yes, such suspicions and such scenes cannot continue for long. Nikolai put a stop to it, or I don't know what we might not have come to. That damned workman was sitting at the time in the next room do you realize that? You know that, of course; and I am aware that he came to see you afterwards. But what you supposed then was not true: I had not sent for anyone, I had made no kind of arrangements. You ask why I hadn't? What shall I say to you: it had all come to me so suddenly. I had scarcely sent for the porters (you noticed them as you went out, I dare say). An idea flashed upon me; I was firmly convinced at the time, you see, Rodion Romanovich. Come on, I thought even if I let one thing slip for a period, I shall get hold of something else I shan't lose what I want, anyway. You are nervous and irritable, Rodion Romanovich, by temperament; it out of proportion to the other qualities of your heart and character, and I flatter myself to think I have to some extent divined them. Of course I did reflect even then that it does not always happen that a man gets up and blurts out his whole story. It does happen sometimes, if you make a man lose all his patience, though even then it rare. I was capable of realizing that. If I only had a fact, I thought, the least little fact to go upon, something I could lay hold of, something tangible, not merely psychological. For if a man is guilty, you must be able to get something substantial out of him; you can count upon the most surprising results. I was counting on your temperament, Rodion Romanovich, on your temperament above all! I had great hopes of you at that time." "But what are you driving at now?" Raskolnikov muttered at last, asking the question without thinking. "What is he talking about?" he wondered distractedly, "does he really take me to be innocent?" "What am I driving at? I've come to explain myself, I consider it my duty, so to speak. I want to make clear to you how the whole business, the whole misunderstanding arose. I've caused you a great deal of suffering, Rodion Romanovich. I am not a monster. I understand what it must mean for a man who has been unfortunate, but who is proud, imperious and above all, impatient, to have to bear such treatment! I regard you in any case as a man of noble character and not without elements of magnanimity, though I don't agree with all your convictions. I wanted to tell you this first, frankly and quite sincerely, for above all I don't want to deceive you. When I made your acquaintance, I felt attracted by you. Perhaps you will laugh at my saying so. You have a right to. I know you disliked me from the first and in fact you've no reason to like me. You may think what you like, but I now wish to do all I can to erase that impression and to show that I have a heart and a conscience. I am saying this sincerely." Porfiry Petrovich made a dignified pause. Raskolnikov felt a rush of renewed alarm. The thought that Porfiry believed him to be innocent began to make him uneasy. "It scarcely necessary to go over everything in detail," Porfiry Petrovich went on. "Indeed I could scarcely attempt it. To begin with there were rumors. Through whom, how, and when those rumors came to me . . . and how they affected you, I need not explain. My suspicions were aroused by a complete accident, which might just as easily not have happened. What was it? Hm! I believe there is no need to go into that either. Those rumors and that accident led to one idea in my mind. I admit it openly for one may as well be clear about it I was the first to pitch on you. The old woman notes on the pledges and the rest of it that all came to nothing. Yours was one of a hundred. I happened, too, to hear of the scene at the office, from a man who described it excellently, unconsciously reproducing the scene with great vividness. It was just one thing after another, Rodion Romanovich, my dear fellow! How could I avoid being brought to certain ideas? From a hundred rabbits you can't make a horse, a hundred suspicions don't make a proof, as the English proverb says, but that only from the rational point of view you can't help being partial, for after all a lawyer is only human. I thought, too, of your article in that journal, do you remember, during your first visit we talked about it? I jeered at you at the time, but that was only to lead you on. I repeat, Rodion Romanovich, you are ill and impatient. That you were bold, headstrong, in earnest and . . . had felt a great deal I recognized long before. I, too, have felt the same, so your article seemed familiar to me. It was conceived on sleepless nights, with a throbbing heart, in ecstasy and with suppressed enthusiasm. And that proud suppressed enthusiasm in young people is dangerous! I jeered at you then, but let me tell you that, as a literary amateur, I am awfully fond of such first essays, full of the heat of youth. There is a mistiness and a chord vibrating in the mist. Your article is absurd and fantastic, but there a transparent sincerity, a youthful incorruptible pride and the daring of despair in it. It a gloomy article, but that what good about it. I read your article and put it aside, thinking as I did so ?Äòthat man won't go the common way.' Well, I ask you, after that as a preliminary, how could I help being carried away by what followed? Oh, dear, I am not saying anything, I am not making any statement now. I simply noted it at the time. What is there in it? I reflected. There nothing in it: that is, really nothing and perhaps absolutely nothing. And it not at all the thing for the prosecutor to let himself be carried away by notions: here I have Nikolai on my hands with actual evidence against him you may think what you like of it, but it evidence. He brings in his psychology, too; you have to consider him, too, because it a matter of life and death. Why am I explaining this to you? So that you will understand, and not blame my malicious behavior on that occasion. It was not malicious, I assure you, he-he! Do you suppose I didn't come to search your room at the time? I did, I did, he-he! I was here when you were lying ill in bed, not officially, not in person, but I was here. Your room was searched to the last thread at the first suspicion; but umsonst! I thought to myself, now that man will come, will come of his own accord and quickly, too; if he guilty, he sure to come. Another man wouldn't but he will. And you remember how Mr. Razumikhin began discussing the subject with you? We arranged that to excite you, so we spread rumors on purpose, so that he might discuss the case with you, and Razumikhin is not a man to restrain his indignation. Mr. Zametov was tremendously struck by your anger and your open daring. Think of blurting out in a restaurant: ?ÄòI killed her.' It was too daring, too reckless. I thought so myself: if he is guilty, he will be a formidable opponent. That was what I thought at the time. I was expecting you. But you simply bowled Zametov over and . . . well, you see, this is where it all lies this damnable psychology can be taken two ways! Well, I kept expecting you, and that was how it was, you came! My heart was really throbbing. Ah! "Now, why need you have come? Your laughter, too, as you came in, do you remember? I saw it all plain as day, but if I hadn't expected you so specially, I should not have noticed anything in your laughter. You see what influence a mood has! Mr. Razumikhin then ah, that stone, that stone under which the things were hidden! I seem to see it somewhere in a kitchen garden. It was in a kitchen garden, you told Zametov and afterwards you repeated that in my office? And when we began picking your article to pieces, how you explained it! One could take every word of yours in two senses, as though there were another meaning hidden. "So in this way, Rodion Romanovich, I reached the furthest limit, and knocking my head against a post, I pulled myself up, asking myself what I was about. After all, I said, you can take it all in another sense if you like, and it more natural to take it that way, in fact. I couldn't help admitting it was more natural. I was bothered! ?ÄòNo, I'd better get hold of some little fact,' I said. So when I heard of the bell-ringing, I held my breath and was all in a tremor. ?ÄòHere is my little fact,' I thought, and I didn't think it over, I simply wouldn't. I would have given a thousand rubles at that minute to have seen you with my own eyes, when you walked a hundred paces beside that workman, after he had called you murderer to your face, and you did not dare to ask him a question all the way. And then what about your trembling, what about your bell-ringing in your illness, in semi-delirium? "And so, Rodion Romanovich, can you wonder that I played such pranks on you? And what made you come at that very minute? Someone seemed to have sent you, by Jove! And if Nikolai had not parted us . . . and do you remember Nikolai at the time? Do you remember him clearly? It was a thunderbolt, a regular thunderbolt! And how I met him! I didn't believe in the thunderbolt, not for a minute. You could see it for yourself; and how could I? Even afterwards, when you had gone and he began making very, very plausible answers on certain points, so plausible that I was surprised at him myself, even then I didn't believe his story! You see what it is to be as firm as a rock! No, thought I, morgen fr?ºh. What has Nikolai got to do with it!" "Razumikhin told me just now that you think Nikolai is guilty and had assured him of it yourself . . . " His voice failed him, and he broke off. He had been listening in indescribable agitation, as this man who had seen through him went back upon himself. He was afraid of believing it and did not believe it. In those words, which were still ambiguous, he kept eagerly looking for something more definite and conclusive. "Mr. Razumikhin!" cried Porfiry Petrovich, seeming glad of a question from Raskolnikov, who had until then been silent. "He-he-he! But I had to put Mr. Razumikhin off; two is company, three is none. Mr. Razumikhin is not the right man; besides, he is an outsider. He came running to me with a pale face . . . But never mind him, why bring him into it! To return to Nikolai, would you like to know what sort of a type he is, how I understand him, that is? To begin with, he is still a child and not exactly a coward, but something of an artist. Really, don't laugh at my describing him like that. He is innocent and open to influence. He has a heart, he is a fantastic fellow. He sings and dances, he tells stories, they say, so well that people come from other villages to hear him. He attends school too, and laughs until he cries if you hold up a finger to him; he will drink himself senseless not as a regular vice, but at times when people treat him like a child. And he stole, too, then, without knowing it himself, for ?ÄòHow can it be stealing, if you pick it up?' And do you know he is an Old Believer,62 or rather a dissenter? There have been Wanderers63 in his family, and for two years in his village he was under the spiritual guidance of an elder. I learnt all this from Nikolai and his fellow villagers. And what more, he wanted to run into the wilderness! He was full of fervor, prayed at night, read the old books, ?Äòthe true' ones, and read himself crazy." "Petersburg had a great effect upon him, especially the women and the wine. He responds to everything and he forgot the elder and all that. I learnt that an artist here took a fancy to him, and used to go and see him, and now this business came along. "Well, he was frightened, he tried to hang himself! He ran away! How can you get over the idea the people have of Russian legal proceedings! The very word ?Äòtrial' frightens some of them. Whose fault is it? We shall see what the new juries will do. God grant they do good! Well, in prison, it seems, he remembered the venerable elder, the Bible, too, made its appearance again. Do you know, Rodion Romanovich, the force of the word ?Äòsuffering' among some of these people! It not a question of suffering for someone benefit, but simply, ?Äòyou must suffer.' If they suffer at the hands of the authorities, so much the better. In my time there was a very meek and mild prisoner who spent a whole year in prison always reading his Bible on the stove at night and he read himself crazy, and so crazy, do you know, that one day, apropos of nothing, he seized a brick and flung it at the governor, though he had done him no harm. And the way he threw it too: aimed it a yard on one side on purpose, for fear of hurting him. Well, we know what happens to a prisoner who assaults an officer with a weapon. So ?Äòhe took his suffering.' "So I suspect now that Nikolai wants to take his suffering or something of the sort. I even know it for certain from the facts. Only he doesn't know that I know. What, you don't admit that there are such fantastic people among the peasants? Lots of them. The elder now has begun influencing him, especially since he tried to hang himself. But he'll come and tell me everything himself. You think he'll hold out? Wait a bit, he'll take his words back. I am waiting hour by hour for him to come and swear in his evidence. I have come to like that Nikolai and am studying him in detail. And what do you think? He-he! He answered me very plausibly on some points, he obviously had collected some evidence and prepared himself cleverly. But on other points he is simply at sea, knows nothing and doesn't even suspect that he doesn't know! "No, Rodion Romanovich, Nikolai doesn't come into it! This is a fantastic, gloomy business, a modern case, an incident of our time, when the heart of man is troubled, when the phrase is quoted that blood ?Äòrenews,' when comfort is preached as the aim of life. Here we have bookish dreams, a heart unhinged by theories. Here we see resolution in the first stage, but resolution of a special kind: he resolved to do it like jumping over a precipice or from a bell tower and his legs shook as he went to the crime. He forgot to shut the door after him, and murdered two people for a theory. He committed the murder and couldn't take the money, and what he did manage to snatch up he hid under a stone. It wasn't enough for him to suffer agony behind the door while they battered at the door and rung the bell, no, he had to go to the empty lodging, half delirious, to recall the bell-ringing, he wanted to feel the cold shiver over again ... Well, that we grant, was through illness, but consider this: he is a murderer, but looks upon himself as an honest man, despises others, poses as an injured innocent. No, that not the work of a Nikolai, my dear Rodion Romanovich!" All that had been said before had sounded so like a recantation that these words were too great a shock. Raskolnikov shuddered as though he had been stabbed. "Then . . . who then . . . is the murderer?" he asked in a breathless voice, unable to restrain himself. Porfiry Petrovich sank back in his chair, as though he were amazed at the question. "Who is the murderer?" he repeated, as though unable to believe his ears. "You, Rodion Romanovich! You are the murderer," he added almost in a whisper, in a voice of genuine conviction. Raskolnikov leapt from the sofa, stood up for a few seconds and sat down again without uttering a word. His face twitched convulsively. "Your lip is twitching just as it did before," Porfiry Petrovich observed almost sympathetically. "You've been misunderstanding me, I think, Rodion Romanovich," he added after a brief pause, "that why you are so surprised. I came on purpose to tell you everything and deal openly with you." "It was not me who murdered her," Raskolnikov whispered like a frightened child caught in the act. "No, it was you, you, Rodion Romanovich, and no-one else," Porfiry whispered sternly, with conviction. They were both silent and the silence lasted strangely long, about ten minutes. Raskolnikov put his elbow on the table and passed his fingers through his hair. Porfiry Petrovich sat quietly waiting. Suddenly Raskolnikov looked scornfully at Porfiry. "You are at your old tricks again, Porfiry Petrovich! Your old method again. I'm amazed you don't get sick of it!" "Oh, stop that, what does that matter now? It would be a different matter if there were witnesses present, but we are whispering alone. You see yourself that I have not come to chase and capture you like a hare. Whether you confess it or not is nothing to me now; as far as I am concerned, I am convinced without it." "If so, what did you come for?" Raskolnikov asked irritably. "I ask you the same question again: if you consider me guilty, why don't you take me to prison?" "Oh, that your question! I will answer you, point for point. Firstly, to arrest you so directly is not in my interest." "How so? If you are convinced you ought . . . " "Ah, what if I am convinced? That only my dream for the time being. Why should I put you in safety? You know that it, since you ask me to do it. If I confront you with that workman for instance and you say to him ?Äòwere you drunk or not? Who saw me with you? I simply thought you were drunk, and you were drunk, too.' Well, what could I answer, especially as your story is a more likely one than his, for there nothing but psychology to support his evidence that almost unseemly with his ugly mug, while you hit the mark exactly, because that rascal is an inveterate drunkard, and notoriously so. And I myself have frankly admitted several times already that that psychology can be taken in two ways and that the second way is stronger and looks far more probable, and that apart from that I have as yet nothing against you. And though I shall put you in prison and indeed have come quite contrary to etiquette to inform you of it beforehand, yet I tell you frankly, also contrary to etiquette, that it won't be to my advantage. Well, secondly, I've come to you because . . . " "Yes, yes, secondly?" Raskolnikov was listening breathless. "Because, as I told you just now, I consider I owe you an explanation. I don't want you to look upon me as a monster, as I have a genuine liking for you, you may believe me or not. And in the third place I've come to you with a direct and open proposition that you should surrender and confess. It will be infinitely more to your advantage and to my advantage too, for my task will be done. Well, is this open on my part or not?" Raskolnikov thought a minute. "Listen, Porfiry Petrovich. You said just now you have nothing but psychology to go on, yet now you've gone on mathematics. Well, what if you are mistaken yourself, now?" "No, Rodion Romanovich, I am not mistaken. I have a little fact even then; Providence sent it to me." "What little fact?" "I won't tell you what, Rodion Romanovich. And in any case, I haven't got the right to put it off any longer, I must arrest you. So think it over: it makes no difference to me now and so I speak only for your sake. Believe me, it will be better, Rodion Romanovich." Raskolnikov smiled malignantly. "That not just ridiculous, it absolutely shameless. Why, even if I were guilty, which I don't admit, what reason would I have to confess, when you tell me yourself that I shall be in greater safety in prison?" "Ah, Rodion Romanovich, don't put too much faith in words, perhaps prison will not be an entirely restful place. That only theory and my theory, and what authority am I for you? Perhaps even now I am hiding something from you? I can't lay everything bare, he-he! And how can you ask what advantage? Don't you know how it would lessen your sentence? You would be confessing at a moment when another man has taken the crime on himself and has therefore muddled the whole case. Consider that! I swear before God that I will so arrange for your confession to come as a complete surprise. We will make a clean sweep of all these psychological points, of any suspicion against you, so that your crime will appear to have been something like an aberration, for in truth it was an aberration. I am an honest man, Rodion Romanovich, and I will keep my word." Raskolnikov maintained a mournful silence and let his head sink dejectedly. He pondered a long while and at last smiled again, but his smile was sad and gentle. "No!" he said, apparently abandoning all attempt to keep up appearances with Porfiry. "It not worth it. I don't care about lessening the sentence!" "That just what I was afraid of!" Porfiry cried warmly and, as it seemed, involuntarily. "That just what I feared, that you wouldn't care about the mitigation of your sentence." Raskolnikov looked sadly and expressively at him. "Ah, don't disdain life!" Porfiry went on. "You have a great deal of it in front of you. How can you say you don't want a mitigation of your sentence? You are an impatient person!" "A great deal of what lies before me?" "Of life. What sort of prophet are you, do you know much about it? Seek and ye shall find. This may be God means for bringing you to Him. And it not forever, the bondage . . . " "The time will be shortened," laughed Raskolnikov. "Why, is it the bourgeois disgrace you are afraid of? It may be that you are afraid of it without knowing it, because you are young! But anyway you shouldn't be afraid of giving yourself up and confessing." "Oh, damn it!" Raskolnikov whispered with loathing and contempt, as though he did not want to speak aloud. He got up again as though he meant to go away, but sat down again in evident despair. "Damn it, if you like! You've lost faith and you think that I am grossly flattering you; but how long has your life been? How much do you understand? You made up a theory and then you were ashamed that it broke down and turned out to be not at all original! It turned out to be something base, that true, but you are not hopelessly base. By no means so base! At least you didn't deceive yourself for long, you went straight to the furthest point in one leap. How do I see you? I see you as one of those men who would stand and smile at their torturer while he cuts their entrails out, if only they have found faith or God. Find it and you will live. You have long needed a change of air. Suffering, too, is a good thing. Suffer! Maybe Nikolai is right in wanting to suffer. I know you don't believe in it but don't be over-wise; fling yourself straight into life, without deliberation; don't be afraid the flood will bring you to the bank and set you safe on your feet again. What bank? How can I tell? I only believe that you have a long life before you. I know that you think all my words now are a set speech prepared beforehand, but maybe you will remember them afterwards. They may be of use some time. That why I speak. It as well that you only killed the old woman. If you'd invented another theory you might perhaps have done something a thousand times more hideous. You ought to thank God, perhaps. How do you know? Perhaps God is saving you for something. But keep your good heart and have less fear! Are you afraid of the great atonement before you? No, it would be shameful to be afraid of it. Since you have taken such a step, you must harden your heart. There is justice in it. You must fulfill the demands of justice. I know that you don't believe it, but life, in fact, will bring you through. You will live it down in time. What you need now is fresh air, fresh air, fresh air!" Raskolnikov shuddered. "But who are you? What prophet are you? From the height of what majestic serenity do you proclaim these words of wisdom?" "Who am I? I am a man with nothing to hope for, that all. A man perhaps of feeling and sympathy, maybe of some knowledge too, but my day is over. But you are a different matter, there is life awaiting you. Though who knows, maybe your life, too, will pass off in smoke and come to nothing. Come on, what does it matter, that you will leave this class of men for another? It not comfort you regret, with your heart! What of it that perhaps no-one will see you for so long? It not time, it you that will decide that. Be the sun and everyone will see you. The sun, above all, has to be the sun. Why are you smiling again? Because I'm such a Schiller? I bet you're thinking I'm trying to get round you by flattery. Well, perhaps I am, he-he-he! Perhaps you'd better not take my word for it, perhaps you'd better never believe it altogether; I'm made that way, I confess. But let me add, you can judge for yourself, I think, to what extent I am base and to what extent I am honest." "When do you intend to arrest me?" "Well, I can let you walk about another day or two. Think it over, my dear fellow, and pray to God. It more in your interest, believe me." "And what if I run away?" asked Raskolnikov with a strange smile. "No, you won't run away. A peasant would run away, a fashionable dissenter would run away, the flunkey of another man thought, for you've only to show him the end of your little finger and he'll be ready to believe in anything for the rest of his life. But you've ceased to believe in your theory already, what will you run away with? And what would you do in hiding? It would be hateful and difficult for you, and what you need more than anything in life is a definite position, an atmosphere to suit you. And what sort of atmosphere would you have? If you ran away, you'd come back to yourself. You can't get along without us. And if I put you in prison say you've been there a month, or two, or three remember my word, you'll confess of your own accord and perhaps to your own surprise. You won't know an hour beforehand that you are coming to confess. I am convinced that you will decide ?Äòto take your suffering.' You don't believe my words now, but you'll come to the same realization by yourself. For suffering, Rodion Romanovich, is a great thing. Never mind the fact that I've got fat, I know it anyway. Don't laugh at it, there a fine idea in suffering; Nikolai is right. No, you won't run away, Rodion Romanovich." Raskolnikov got up and took his cap. Porfiry Petrovich also rose. "Are you going for a walk? The evening will be beautiful as long as we don't have a storm. Though it would be a good thing to freshen the air." He too took his cap. "Porfiry Petrovich, please don't think I've confessed to you today," Raskolnikov pronounced with sullen insistence. "You're a strange man and I have listened to you just from curiosity. But I've admitted nothing, remember that!" "Oh, I know that, I'll remember. Look at him, he trembling! Don't be uneasy, my dear fellow, have it your own way. Walk about a bit, you won't be able to walk too far. If anything happens, I have one request to make of you," he added, dropping his voice. "It an awkward one, but it important. If anything were to happen (though I don't believe it would and I consider you utterly incapable of it), in case you became fascinated during these forty or fifty hours with the notion of putting an end to the business in some other way, in some fantastic way laying hands on yourself (it an absurd proposition, but you must forgive me for it), do leave a brief but precise note two lines only and mention the stone. It will be more generous. Come, until we meet! I wish you good thoughts and sound decisions!" Porfiry went out, stooping and avoiding Raskolnikov gaze. The latter went to the window and waited with irritable impatience until he calculated that Porfiry had reached the street and moved away. Then he too went hurriedly out of the room. CHAPTER THREE HE HURRIED TO SVIDRIGAILOV . What he had to hope from that man he did not know. But Svidrigailov had some hidden power over him. Having recognized this once, he could not rest, and now the time had come. On the way, one question worried him in particular: had Svidrigailov been to Porfiry ? As far as he could judge, he would swear that he had not. He pondered again and again, went over Porfiry visit; no, he hadn't been, of course he hadn't. But if he had not been there yet, would he go? Meanwhile, for the present he fancied he couldn't. Why? He could not have explained, but if he could, he would not have wasted much thought over it at the moment. It all worried him and at the same time he could not attend to it. Strange to say, no-one would have believed it perhaps, but only he felt a faint vague anxiety about his immediate future. Another, much more important anxiety tormented him it concerned himself, but in a different, more vital way. Moreover, he was conscious of immense moral fatigue, though his mind was working better that morning than it had done of late. And was it worthwhile, after all that had happened, to contend with these new trivial difficulties? Was it worthwhile, for instance, to perform some maneuver so that Svidrigailov would not go to Porfiry ? Was it worthwhile to investigate, to establish the facts, to waste time over anyone like Svidrigailov? Oh how sick he was of it all! And yet he was hastening to Svidrigailov ; could he be expecting something new from him, information, or means of escape? People do clutch at straws! Was it destiny or some instinct bringing them together? Perhaps it was only fatigue, despair; perhaps it was not Svidrigailov but some other person whom he needed, and Svidrigailov had simply presented himself by chance. Sonia? But what should he go to Sonia for now? To beg for her tears again? He was afraid of Sonia, too. Sonia stood before him like an irrevocable sentence. He must go his own way or hers. At that moment especially he did not feel strong enough to see her. No, would it not be better to try Svidrigailov? And he could not help inwardly admitting that he had long felt that he must see him for some reason. But what could they have in common? Even their evil-doing could not be of the same kind. The man, moreover, was very unpleasant, evidently depraved, undoubtedly cunning and deceitful, possibly malignant. Such stories were told about him. It is true he was befriending Katerina Ivanovna children, but who could tell with what motive and what it meant? The man always had some scheme, some project. There was another thought which had been continually hovering around Raskolnikov mind recently, and which was causing him great uneasiness. It was so painful that he made evident efforts to get rid of it. He sometimes thought that Svidrigailov was shadowing him. Svidrigailov had found out his secret and had had intentions towards Dunia. What if he had them still? Wasn't it practically certain that he had? And what if, having learnt his secret and gained power over him, he were to use it as a weapon against Dunia? This idea sometimes even tormented his dreams, but it had never presented itself so vividly to him as on his way to Svidrigailov. Even the thought of it moved him to gloomy rage. To begin with, this would transform everything, even his own position; he would have to confess his secret at once to Dunia. Would he have to give himself up, perhaps, to prevent Dunia from taking some rash step? The letter? This morning Dunia had received a letter. From whom could she get letters in Petersburg? Luzhin, perhaps? It true Razumikhin was there to protect her, but Razumikhin knew nothing of her position. Perhaps it was his duty to tell Razumikhin? The thought of it repulsed him. In any case he must see Svidrigailov as soon as possible, he decided finally. Thank God, the details of the interview would not have many consequences, if only he could get to the root of the matter; but if Svidrigailov were capable . . . if he were plotting against Dunia, then . . . Raskolnikov was so exhausted by what he had been through that month that he could only decide this type of question in one way. "Then I shall kill him," he thought in cold despair. A sudden anguish oppressed his heart; he stood still in the middle of the street and began looking around to see where he was and which way he was going. He found himself in X. Prospect thirty or forty yards from the Haymarket, through which he had come. The whole second storey of the house on the left was used as a tavern. All the windows were wide open; judging from the figures moving at the windows, the rooms were full to overflowing. There were sounds of singing, of clarinets and violins, and the boom of a Turkish drum. He could hear women shrieking. He was about to turn back wondering why he had come to X. Prospect, when suddenly at one of the end windows he saw Svidrigailov, sitting at a tea-table right in the open window with a pipe in his mouth. Raskolnikov was completely taken aback, almost terrified. Svidrigailov was silently watching and scrutinizing him, and what struck Raskolnikov at once was that he seemed to be intending to get up and slip away unobserved. Raskolnikov at once pretended not to have seen him, but to be looking absentmindedly away, while he watched him out of the corner of his eye. His heart was beating violently. Yet it was evident that Svidrigailov did not want to be seen. He took the pipe out of his mouth and was about to hide himself, but as he got up and moved his chair back, he seemed to have become suddenly aware that Raskolnikov had seen him and was watching him. What had passed between them was much the same as what happened at their first meeting in Raskolnikov room. A sly smile came into Svidrigailov face and grew broader and broader. Both of them knew that they had been seen and were being watched by the other. At last Svidrigailov broke into a loud laugh. "Well, well, come in if you want me; I am here!" he shouted from the window. Raskolnikov went up into the tavern. He found Svidrigailov in a tiny back room next to the saloon in which merchants, clerks and people of all sorts were drinking tea at twenty little tables to the desperate bawling of a chorus of singers. The click of billiard balls could be heard in the distance. On the table in front of Svidrigailov stood an open bottle, and a glass half full of champagne. In the room he also found a boy with a little hand organ, a healthy-looking, red-cheeked, eighteen-year-old girl, wearing a tucked-up striped skirt and a Tyrolese hat with ribbons. In spite of the chorus in the other room, she was singing some servants' hall song in a rather husky contralto, to the accompaniment of the organ. "Come on, that enough," Svidrigailov stopped her at Raskolnikov entrance. The girl at once broke off and stood waiting respectfully. She had sung her guttural rhymes, too, with a serious and respectful expression on her face. "Hey, Philip, a glass!" shouted Svidrigailov. "I don't want anything to drink," said Raskolnikov. "As you wish, I didn't intend it to be for you. Drink, Katia! I don't want anything else today, you can go." He poured her a full glass, and laid out a yellow note. Katia drank up her glass of wine, as women do, without putting it down, in twenty gulps, took the note and kissed Svidrigailov hand, which he allowed her to do quite seriously. She went out of the room and the boy trailed after her with the organ. Both of them had been brought in from the street. Svidrigailov had not even been in Petersburg a week, but everything about him was already, so to speak, in patriarchal mode; the waiter, Philip, was by now an old friend and had fallen right under his thumb. The door leading to the saloon had a lock on it. Svidrigailov was at home in this room and perhaps spent whole days in it. The tavern was dirty and wretched, not even second rate. "I was going to see you, I started looking for you," Raskolnikov began, "but I don't know what made me turn out of the Haymarket into X. Prospect just now. I never take this turning. I turn right out of the Haymarket. And this isn't the way to your house. I just turned and here you are. Strange!" "Why don't you say straight off, ?ÄòIt a miracle'?" "Because it may be only chance." "Oh, that the way with all you people," laughed Svidrigailov. "You won't admit it, even if you inwardly believe it a miracle! Here you say that it may only be chance. And what cowards they all are here, about having an opinion of their own, you can't imagine, Rodion Romanovich. I don't mean you, you have an opinion of your own and you aren't afraid to have it. That how you attracted my curiosity." "Nothing else?" "Well, that enough, as you know," Svidrigailov was obviously exhilarated, but only slightly; he had not had more than half a glass of wine. "I think you came to see me before you knew that I was capable of having what you call an opinion of my own," observed Raskolnikov. "Oh, well, that was a different matter. Everyone has his own plans. And as for the miracle, let me tell you, I think you have been asleep for the last two or three days. I told you about this tavern myself, there is no miracle in your coming straight here. I explained the way myself, told you where it was, and the hours you could find me here. Do you remember?" "I don't remember," answered Raskolnikov with surprise. "I believe you. I told you twice. The address has been stamped mechanically on your memory. You turned this way mechanically and yet precisely according to the directions, though you aren't aware of it. When I told you then, I hardly hoped you understood me. You give yourself away too much, Rodion Romanovich. And another thing I'm convinced there are lots of people in Petersburg who talk to themselves as they walk. This is a town of crazy people. If only we had scientists, doctors, lawyers and philosophers might make some highly valuable investigations in Petersburg. There are few places where there are so many gloomy, strong and strange influences on the human soul as in Petersburg. The influence of the climate alone means so much. And it the administrative center of all Russia and its character must be reflected on the whole country. But that is neither here nor there now. The point is that I have watched you several times. You walk out of your house holding your head high twenty paces from home you let it sink, and fold your hands behind your back. You look and evidently see nothing in front of you or beside you. At last you begin moving your lips and talking to yourself, and sometimes you wave one hand and declaim, and at last stand still in the middle of the road. That definitely not the thing to do. Someone may be watching you apart from me, and it won't do you any good. It nothing really to do with me and I can't cure you, but, of course, you understand me." "Do you know that I am being followed?" asked Raskolnikov, looking inquisitively at him. "No, I know nothing about it," said Svidrigailov, seeming surprised. "Well, then, let leave me out of it," Raskolnikov muttered, frowning. "Very well, let leave you out of it." "You had better tell me, if you come here to drink, and directed me twice to come here to see you, why did you hide and try to get away just now when I looked at the window from the street? I saw it." "He-he! And why was it you lay on your sofa with closed eyes and pretended to be asleep, though you were wide awake while I stood in your doorway? I saw it." "I may have had . . . reasons. You know that yourself." "And I may have had my reasons, though you don't know them." Raskolnikov dropped his right elbow on the table, leaned his chin in the fingers of his right hand, and stared intently at Svidrigailov. For a full minute he scrutinized his face, which had impressed him before. It was a strange face, like a mask; white and red, with bright red lips, with a flaxen beard, and flaxen hair which was still thick. His eyes were somehow too blue and their expression somehow too heavy and fixed. There was something extremely unpleasant in that handsome face, which looked so wonderfully young for its age. Svidrigailov was smartly dressed in light summer clothes and looked particularly refined in his linen. He wore a huge ring with a precious stone in it. "Have I got to bother myself now with you too?" said Raskolnikov suddenly, coming straight to the point with nervous impatience. "Even though you might be the most dangerous if you wanted to hurt me, I don't want to put myself out anymore. I will show you at once that I don't prize myself as much as you probably think I do. I've come to tell you at once that if you keep to your former intentions with regard to my sister and if you wish to derive any benefit in that direction from what has been discovered of late, I will kill you before you get me locked up. You can count on my word. You know that I can keep it. And, secondly, if you want to tell me anything because I keep thinking all the time that you have something to tell me hurry up and tell it, because time is precious and very likely it will soon be too late." "Why in such haste?" asked Svidrigailov, looking at him curiously. "Everyone has his plans," Raskolnikov answered gloomily and impatiently. "You urged me yourself to be frank just now, and you refuse to answer the first question I put to you," Svidrigailov observed with a smile. "You keep imagining that I have aims of my own and so you look at me with suspicion. Of course it perfectly natural in your position. But though I would like to be friends with you, I shan't trouble myself to convince you of the opposite. The game isn't worth the candle and I wasn't intending to talk to you about anything special." "What did you want me, for, then? It was you who came hanging around me." "Just as an interesting subject for observation. I liked the fantastic nature of your position that what it was! Besides, you are the brother of a person who greatly interested me, and from that person I had in the past heard a very great deal about you, from which I gathered that you had a great influence over her; isn't that enough? Ha-ha-ha! Still I must admit that your question is rather complex; it is difficult for me to answer. Here, you, for instance, have come to me not only with a definite purpose, but also for the sake of hearing something new. Isn't that so? Isn't that so?" persisted Svidrigailov with a sly smile. "Well, can't you imagine then that on my way here in the train I too was counting on you, on the fact that you would tell me something new, and on the fact that I would make some profit out of you! You see what rich men we are!" "What profit could you make?" "How can I tell you? How do I know? You see the tavern in which I spend all my time and it my enjoyment, that to say it no great enjoyment, but I have to sit somewhere; that poor Katia now you saw her? . . . If only I had been a glutton now, a club gourmand, but you see I can eat this." He pointed to a little table in the corner where the remnants of a terrible looking beef-steak and potatoes lay on a tin dish. "Have you had dinner, by the way? I've had something and I don't want anything else. I don't drink, for instance, at all. Except for champagne I never touch anything, and not more than a glass of that all evening, and even that is enough to make my head ache. I ordered it just now to wind myself up: I am just going off somewhere and you see I am in a strange state of mind. That was why I hid myself just now like a schoolboy, because I was afraid you would get in my way. But I believe," he pulled out his watch, "I can spend an hour with you. It half-past four now. If only I'd been something, a landowner, a father, a cavalry officer, a photographer, a journalist . . . I am nothing, no specialty, and sometimes I am positively bored. I really thought you would tell me something new." "But what are you, and why have you come here?" "What am I? You know, a gentleman, I served for two years in the cavalry, then I knocked about here in Petersburg, then I married Marfa Petrovna and lived in the country. There you have my biography!" "You're a gambler, I believe?" "No, a poor sort of gambler. A card-cheat not a gambler." "You've been a card-cheat then?" "Yes, I've been a card-cheat too." "Didn't you get thrashed sometimes?" "It did happen. Why?" "Because you might have challenged them . . . all in all, it must have been lively." "I won't contradict you and, besides, I am no good at philosophy. I confess that I hurried here because of the women." "As soon as you buried Marfa Petrovna?" "Quite so," Svidrigailov smiled with engaging candor. "What does it matter? You seem to find something wrong in my speaking like that about women?" "Are you asking whether I find anything wrong in vice?" "Vice! Oh, that what you're after! But I'll answer you in order, first about women in general; you know I am fond of talking. Tell me, what should I restrain myself for? Why should I give up women, since I have a passion for them? It an occupation, anyway." "So you hope for nothing here but vice?" "Oh, very well, for vice then. You insist that it vice. But anyway I like a direct question. In this vice at least there is something permanent, founded upon nature and not dependent on fantasy, something present in the blood like an ever-burning ember, forever setting one on fire and possibly not to be quickly extinguished, even with years. You'll agree it an occupation of a sort." "That nothing to rejoice at, it a disease and a dangerous one." "Oh, that what you think, is it? I agree that it is a disease like everything that exceeds moderation. And, of course, in this you must exceed moderation. But firstly, everybody does so in one way or another, and secondly, of course, you ought to be moderate and prudent, however mean it may be, but what am I to do? If I hadn't got this, I might have to shoot myself. I am ready to admit that a decent man ought to put up with being bored, but yet . . . " "And could you shoot yourself?" "Oh, come on!" Svidrigailov parried with disgust. "Please don't talk about it," he added hurriedly and with none of the bragging tone he had shown in the whole of the previous conversation. His face changed completely. "I admit it an unforgivable weakness, but I can't help it. I am afraid of death and I don't like it when people talk about it. Do you know that I am to a certain extent a mystic?" "Ah, the apparitions of Marfa Petrovna! Do they still go on visiting you?" "Oh, don't talk of them; there have been no more in Petersburg, damn them!" he cried with an air of irritation. "Let talk about that instead . . . though . . . Hm! I haven't got much time, and I can't stay long with you, it a pity! I would have found plenty to tell you." "What your engagement, a woman?" "Yes, a woman, a casual incident . . . No, that not what I want to talk of." "And the hideousness, the filthiness of all your surroundings, doesn't that affect you? Have you lost the strength to stop yourself?" "And do you pretend to have strength, too? He-he-he! You surprised me just now, Rodion Romanovich, though I knew beforehand it would be so. You preach to me about vice and aesthetics! You a Schiller, you an idealist! Of course that all as it should be and it would be surprising if it were not so, yet it is strange in reality . . . Ah, what a pity I have no time, you're an extremely interesting type! And, by the way, are you fond of Schiller? I am extremely fond of him." "But what a braggart you are," Raskolnikov said with some disgust. "I'm not, I swear it," answered Svidrigailov laughing. "However, I won't dispute it, let me be a braggart, why not brag, if it doesn't hurt anyone? I spent seven years in the country with Marfa Petrovna, so now when I come across an intelligent person like you intelligent and highly interesting I am simply glad to talk and, besides, I've drunk that half-glass of champagne and it gone to my head a little. And, besides, there a certain fact that has wound me up tremendously, but about that I . . . will keep quiet. Where are you off to?" he asked in alarm. Raskolnikov had begun getting up. He felt oppressed and stifled and, as it were, ill at ease at having come here. He felt convinced that Svidrigailov was the most worthless scoundrel on the face of the earth. "A-ah! Sit down, stay a little!" Svidrigailov begged. "Let them bring you some tea, anyway. Stay a little, I won't talk nonsense, about myself, I mean. I'll tell you something. If you like I'll tell you how a woman tried ?Äòto save' me, as you'd put it? It'll be an answer to your first question, in fact, because the woman was your sister. May I tell you? It will help to pass the time." "Tell me, but I trust that you . . . " "Oh, don't be uneasy. Besides, even in a worthless low person like me, Avdotia Romanovna can only arouse the deepest respect." CHAPTER FOUR "YOU KNOW PERHAPS YES, I told you myself," began Svidrigailov, "that I was in the debtors' prison here, for an immense sum of money, and had no expectation of being able to pay it. There no need to go into the particulars of how Marfa Petrovna bought me out; do you know how insanely a woman can sometimes love? She was an honest woman, and very sensible, although completely uneducated. Would you believe that this honest and jealous woman, after many scenes of hysterics and reproaches, condescended to enter into a kind of contract with me which she kept throughout our married life? She was considerably older than I was, and, besides, she always kept a clove or something in her mouth. There was so much swin ishness in my soul and honesty too, of a sort, that I told her straight out I couldn't be absolutely faithful to her. This confession drove her to frenzy, but yet she seems in a way to have liked my brutal frankness. She thought it showed I was unwilling to deceive her if I warned her like this beforehand and for a jealous woman, you know, that the first consideration. After many tears an unwritten contract was drawn up between us: first, that I would never leave Marfa Petrovna and would always be her husband; secondly, that I would never go off without her permission; thirdly, that I would never have a permanent mistress; fourthly, in return for this, Marfa Petrovna gave me a free hand with the maids, but only with her secret knowledge; fifthly, God forbid my falling in love with a woman of our class; sixthly, in case I God forbid should have a serious passion I was obliged to reveal it to Marfa Petrovna. On this last score, however, Marfa Petrovna was fairly at ease. She was a sensible woman and so she could not help looking upon me as a dissolute womanizer incapable of real love. But a sensible woman and a jealous woman are two very different things, and that where the trouble came in. But to judge some people impartially we must renounce certain preconceived opinions and our habitual attitude to the ordinary people about us. I have reason to have faith in your judgment rather than in anyone else . Perhaps you have already heard a great deal that was ridiculous and absurd about Marfa Petrovna. She certainly had some very ridiculous ways, but I tell you frankly that I feel really sorry for the innumerable sufferings which I caused. Well, that enough, I think, for a decorous oraison fun?(r)bre64 for the most tender wife of a most tender husband. When we quarreled, I usually held my tongue and did not irritate her and that gentlemanly conduct rarely failed to fulfill its aim: it influenced her, it pleased her, in fact. These were times when she was truly proud of me. But your sister she couldn't put up with anyway. And how she came to risk taking such a beautiful creature into her house as a governess! My explanation is that Marfa Petrovna was an ardent and impressionable woman and simply fell in love herself literally fell in love with your sister. Well, little wonder look at Avdotia Romanovna! I saw the danger at first sight and, what do you know, I resolved not to look at her even. But Avdotia Romanovna herself made the first step, would you believe it? Would you believe it too that Marfa Petrovna was actually angry with me at first for my persistent silence about your sister, for my careless reception of her continual adoring praises of Avdotia Romanovna. I don't know what it was she wanted! Well, of course, Marfa Petrovna told Avdotia Romanovna every detail about me. She had the unfortunate habit of telling literally everyone all our family secrets and continually complaining about me; how could she fail to confide in such a delightful new friend? I expect they talked of nothing else but me and no doubt Avdotia Romanovna heard all those dark mysterious rumors that were current about me . . . I don't mind betting that you too have heard something of the sort already?" "I have. Luzhin charged you with having caused the death of a child. Is that true?" "Don't refer to those vulgar tales, I beg you," said Svidrigailov with disgust and annoyance. "If you insist on wanting to know about all that idiocy, I will tell you one day, but now . . . " "I was told too about some footman of yours in the country whom you treated badly." "I beg you to drop the subject," Svidrigailov interrupted again with obvious impatience. "Was that the footman who came to you after death to fill your pipe? . . . you told me about it yourself," Raskolnikov felt more and more irritated. Svidrigailov looked at him attentively and Raskolnikov thought he caught a flash of spiteful mockery in that look. But Svidrigailov restrained himself and answered very civilly. "Yes, it was. I see that you, too, are extremely interested, and I shall feel it my duty to satisfy your curiosity at the first opportunity. Upon my soul! I see that I really might pass for a romantic figure with some people. Judge how grateful I must be to Marfa Petrovna for having repeated to Avdotia Romanovna such mysterious and interesting gossip about me. I dare not guess what impression it made on her, but in any case it worked in my interests. With all Avdotia Romanovna natural aversion and in spite of my invariably gloomy and repellent aspect she did at least feel pity for me, pity for a lost soul. And once a girl heart is moved to pity, it more dangerous than anything. She is bound to want to ?Äòsave him,' to bring him to his senses, and lift him up and draw him to nobler aims, and restore him to new life and usefulness well, we all know how far such dreams can go. I saw at once that the bird was flying into the cage of her own accord. And I too prepared myself. I think you're frowning, Rodion Romanovich? There no need. As you know, it all ended in smoke. (Damn it all, what a lot I am drinking!) Do you know, I always, from the very beginning, regretted that it wasn't your sister fate to be born in the second or third century A.D., as the daughter of a reigning prince or some governor or proconsul in Asia Minor. She would undoubtedly have been one of those who would endure martyrdom and would have smiled when they branded her bosom with hot pincers. And she would have gone to it of her own accord. And in the fourth or fifth century she would have walked away into the Egyptian desert65 and would have stayed there thirty years living on roots and ecstasies and visions. She is simply thirsting to face some torture for someone, and if she can't get her torture, she'll throw herself out of a window. I've heard something of a Mr. Razumikhin he said to be a sensible fellow; his surname suggests it, in fact. He probably a divinity student. Well, he'd better look after your sister! I believe I understand her, and I am proud of it. But at the beginning of an acquaintance, as you know, people tend to be more careless and stupid. They don't see clearly. Damn it all, why is she so beautiful? It not my fault. In fact, it began on my side with a most irresistible physical desire. Avdotia Romanovna is awfully chaste, incredibly and phenomenally so. Take note, I tell you this about your sister as a fact. She is almost morbidly chaste, in spite of her broad intelligence, and it will stand in her way. There happened to be a girl in the house then, Parasha, a black-eyed wench, whom I had never seen before she had just come from another village very pretty, but incredibly stupid: she burst into tears, wailed so that she could be heard all over the place and caused scandal. One day after dinner Avdotia Romanovna followed me into an avenue in the garden and with flashing eyes insisted that I left poor Parasha alone. It was almost our first conversation by ourselves. I, of course, was only too pleased to obey her wishes, tried to appear disconcerted, embarrassed, in fact played my part not badly. Then came interviews, mysterious conversations, exhortations, entreaties, supplications, even tears would you believe it, even tears? Think what the passion for propaganda will bring some girls to! I, of course, threw it all on my destiny, posed as hungering and thirsting for light, and finally resorted to the most powerful weapon in the subjection of the female heart, a weapon which never fails. It the well-known resource flattery. Nothing in the world is harder than speaking the truth and nothing easier than flattery. If there the hundredth part of a false note in speaking the truth, it leads to a discord, and that leads to trouble. But if everything, to the last note, is false in flattery, it is just as agreeable, and is heard not without satisfaction. It may be a coarse satisfaction, but still a satisfaction. And however coarse the flattery, at least half will be sure to seem true. That so for all stages of development and classes of society. A vestal virgin might be seduced by flattery. I can never remember without laughter how I once seduced a lady who was devoted to her husband, her children, and her principles. What fun it was and how little trouble! And the lady really had principles, of her own, anyway. All my tactics lay in simply being utterly annihilated and prostrate before her purity. I flattered her shamelessly, and as soon as I succeeded in getting a pressure of the hand, even a glance from her, I would reproach myself for having snatched it by force, and would declare that she had resisted, so that I could never have gained anything but for the fact that I was so unprincipled. I maintained that she was so innocent that she could not foresee my treachery, and yielded to me unconsciously, unawares, and so on. In fact, I triumphed, while my lady remained firmly convinced that she was innocent, chaste, and faithful to all her duties and obligations and had succumbed quite by accident. And how angry she was with me when I explained to her at last that it was my sincere conviction that she was just as eager as I. Poor Marfa Petrovna was extremely susceptible to flattery, and if I had wanted to, I might have had all her property settled on me during her lifetime. (I am drinking an awful lot of wine now and talking too much.) I hope you won't be angry if I mention now that I was beginning to produce the same effect on Avdotia Romanovna. But I was stupid and impatient and spoiled it all. Avdotia Romanovna had several times and one time in particular been greatly displeased by the expression of my eyes, would you believe it? There was sometimes a light in them which frightened her and grew stronger and stronger and more unguarded until it was hateful to her. No need to go into detail, but we parted. There I acted stupidly again. I started jeering in the coarsest way at all such propaganda and efforts to convert me; Parasha came on to the scene again, and not she alone; in fact, there was a serious incident. Ah, Rodion Romanovich, if you could only see how your sister eyes can flash sometimes! Never mind the fact that I'm drunk at the moment and have had a whole glass of wine. I am speaking the truth. I assure you that this glance has haunted my dreams; the very rustle of her dress was more than I could eventually stand. I really began to think that I might become epileptic. I could never have believed that I could be moved to such a frenzy. It was essential, indeed, to be reconciled, but by then it was impossible. And imagine what I did then! To what a pitch of stupidity a man can be brought by frenzy! Never undertake anything in a frenzy, Rodion Romanovich. I reflected that Avdotia Romanovna was after all a beggar (ah, excuse me, that not the word . . . but does it matter if it expresses the meaning?), that she lived by her work, that she had her mother and you to keep (ah, damn it, you are frowning again), and I resolved to offer her all my money thirty thousand rubles I could have made available then if she would run away with me here, to Petersburg. Of course I should have vowed eternal love, rapture, and so on. Do you know, I was so wild about her at that time that if she had told me to poison Marfa Petrovna or to cut her throat and to marry her, I would have done it at once! But it ended in the catastrophe which you know about already. You can imagine how frantic I was when I heard that Marfa Petrovna had got hold of that ghastly attorney, Luzhin, and had almost made a match between them which would really have been just the same thing as I was proposing. Wouldn't it? Wouldn't it? I notice that you've begun to be very attentive . . . you interesting young man . . . " Svidrigailov struck the table with his fist impatiently. He was flushed. Raskolnikov saw clearly that the glass or glass and a half of champagne that he had sipped almost unconsciously was affecting him and he resolved to take advantage of the opportunity. He felt very suspicious of Svidrigailov. "Well, after what you have said, I am fully convinced that you have come to Petersburg with designs on my sister," he said directly to Svidrigailov, in order to irritate him further. "Oh, nonsense," said Svidrigailov, seeming to rouse himself. "Why, I told you . . . besides your sister can't endure me." "Yes, I am certain that she can't, but that not the point." "Are you so sure that she can't?" Svidrigailov screwed up his eyes and smiled mockingly. "You are right, she doesn't love me, but you can never be sure of what has passed between husband and wife or lover and mistress. There always a little corner which remains a secret to the world and is only known to those two. Will you answer for it that Avdotia Romanovna regarded me with aversion?" "From some words you've dropped, I notice that you still have designs and of course evil ones on Dunia and intend to carry them out promptly." "What, have I dropped words like that?" Svidrigailov asked in naive dismay, taking not the slightest notice of the epithet bestowed on his designs. "But you're dropping them even now. Why are you so frightened? What are you so afraid of now?" "Me afraid? Afraid of you? You should rather be afraid of me, cher ami.66 But what nonsense . . . I've drunk too much though, I see that. I was almost saying too much again. Damn the wine! Hi there, water!" He snatched up the champagne bottle and flung it without ceremony out of the window. Philip brought the water. "That all nonsense!" said Svidrigailov, wetting a towel and putting it to his head. "But I can answer you in one word and annihilate all your suspicions. Do you know that I am going to get married?" "You told me so before." "Did I? I've forgotten. But I couldn't have told you so for certain because I hadn't even seen my fianc?(c)e; I only meant to. But now I really have a fianc?(c)e and it been settled, and if it weren't that I have business that can't be put off, I would have taken you to see them at once, because I would like to ask your advice. Ah, damn it, only ten minutes left! See, look at the watch. But I must tell you, it an interesting story, my marriage, in its own way. Where are you off to? Going again?" "No, I'm not going away now." "Not at all? We shall see. I'll take you there, I'll show you my betrothed, only not now. Soon you'll have to be off. You have to go right and I have to go left. Do you know that Madame Resslich, the woman I am lodging with now, eh? I know what you're thinking, that she the woman whose girl they say drowned herself in the winter. Come on, are you listening? She arranged it all for me. You're bored, she said, you want something to fill up your time. Since, as you know, I am a depressed, gloomy person. Do you think I'm light-hearted? No, I'm gloomy. I do no harm and sit in a corner without speaking a word for three days at a time. And that Resslich is a sly one, I tell you. I know what she got on her mind; she thinks I'll get sick of it, abandon my wife and leave, and she'll get hold of her and make a profit out of her in our class, of course, or higher. She told me the father was a broken-down retired official, who has been sitting in a chair for the last three years with his legs paralyzed. The mamma, she said, was a sensible woman. There is a son serving in the provinces, but he doesn't help; there is a daughter, who is married, but she doesn't visit them. And they've got two little nephews on their hands, as though their own children were not enough, and they've taken their youngest daughter out of school, a girl who'll be sixteen in another month, so that she can be married. She was for me. We went there. How funny it was! I present myself a landowner, a widower, with a well-known name, with connections, with a fortune. What if I am fifty and she is not yet sixteen? Who thinks about that? But it fascinating, isn't it? It fascinating, ha-ha! You should have seen how I talked to the papa and mamma. It was worth paying to have seen me at that moment. She comes in, curtsys, you can imagine, still in a short frock an unopened bud! Blushing like a sunset she had been told, no doubt. I don't know how you feel about female faces, but to my mind these sixteen years, these childish eyes, shyness and tears of bashfulness are better than beauty; and she is a perfect little picture, too. Fair hair in little curls, like a lamb , full little rosy lips, tiny feet, a charmer! . . . Well, we made friends. I told them I was in a hurry because of domestic circumstances, and the next day, that is the day before yesterday, we were engaged. When I go now I take her on my knee at once and keep her there . . . Well, she blushes like a sunset and I kiss her every minute. Her mamma of course impresses on her that this is her husband and that this is how it must be. It just delicious! The present condition of being engaged is perhaps better than marriage. Here you have what is called la nature et la v?(c)rit?(c),67 ha-ha! I've talked to her twice, she is far from a fool. Sometimes she steals a look at me that absolutely scorches me. Her face is like Raphael Madonna. You know, the Sistine Madonna face has something fantastic in it, the face of mournful religious ecstasy. Haven't you noticed it? Well, she something in that line. The day after we'd been engaged, I bought her presents worth fifteen hundred rubles a set of diamonds and another of pearls and a silver dressing-case as large as this, with all sorts of things in it, so that even my Madonna face glowed. I sat her on my knee, yesterday, and I suppose rather too unceremoniously she flushed crimson and the tears started, but she didn't want to show it. We were left alone, she suddenly flung herself on my neck (for the first time of her own accord), put her little arms round me, kissed me, and vowed that she would be an obedient, faithful, and good wife, would make me happy, would devote all her life, every minute of her life, would sacrifice everything, everything, and that all she asks in return is my respect, and that she wants ?Äònoth ing, nothing more from me, no presents.' You'll admit that to hear such a confession, alone, from an angel of sixteen in a muslin frock, with little curls, with a flush of maiden shyness in her cheeks and tears of enthusiasm in her eyes is rather fascinating! Isn't it fascinating? It worth paying for, isn't it? Well . . . listen, we'll go to see my fianc?(c)e, only not just now!" "The fact is that this monstrous difference in age and development excites your sensuality! Will you really make such a marriage?" "But of course. Everyone thinks of himself, and the man who lives most gaily knows best how to deceive himself. Ha-ha! But why are you so keen on virtue? Have mercy on me, my good friend. I am a sinful man. Ha-ha-ha!" "But you have provided for the children of Katerina Ivanovna. Though . . . though you had your own reasons . . . I understand it all now." "I am always fond of children, very fond of them," laughed Svidrigailov. "I can tell you one curious example of this. The first day I came here I visited various places, after seven years I just rushed at them. You probably notice that I am not in a hurry to renew my acquaintance with my old friends. I shall do without them as long as I can. Do you know, when I was with Marfa Petrovna in the country, I was haunted by the thought of these places where anyone who knows his way around can find a great deal. Yes, I swear on my soul! The peasants have vodka, the educated young people, shut out from activity, waste themselves in impossible dreams and visions and are crippled by theories; Jews have sprung up and are amassing money, and all the rest give themselves up to debauchery. From the first hour the town reeked of its familiar odors. I happened to be in a terrible den I like my dens dirty it was a dance, so called, and there was a cancan such as I never saw in my day. Yes, there you have progress. All of a sudden I saw a little girl of thirteen, nicely dressed, dancing with a specialist in that line, with another one vis-??-vis. Her mother was sitting on a chair by the wall. You can't fancy what a cancan that was! The girl was ashamed, blushed, at last felt insulted, and began to cry. Her partner seized her and began whirling her round and performing before her; everyone laughed and I like the public, even the cancan public they laughed and shouted, ?ÄòServes her right serves her right! Shouldn't bring children!' Well, it not my business whether that consoling reflection was logical or not. I at once fixed on my plan, sat down by her mother, and began by saying that I too was a stranger and that people here were ill-bred and that they couldn't recognize decent people and treat them with respect, let her know that I had plenty of money and offered to take them home in my carriage. I took them home and got to know them. They were staying in a miserable little hole and had only just arrived from the country. She told me that she and her daughter could only regard my acquaintance as an honor. I found out that they had nothing of their own and had come to town on some legal business. I offered my services and money. I learnt that they had gone to the dancing saloon by mistake, believing that it was a genuine dancing class. I offered to assist in the young girl education in French and dancing. My offer was accepted with enthusiasm as an honor and we are still friendly . . . If you like, we'll go and see them, only not just now." "Stop! Enough of your disgusting, nasty anecdotes, you vile, depraved man!" "Schiller, you are a regular Schiller! O? la vertu va-t-elle se nicher?68 But you know I shall tell you these things on purpose, for the pleasure of hearing your outcries!" "I dare say. I can see I'm ridiculous myself," muttered Raskolnikov angrily. Svidrigailov laughed heartily; finally he called Philip, paid his bill, and began getting up. "Goodness, I am drunk, assez caus?(c),"69 he said. "It been a pleasure." "I should think it must be a pleasure!" cried Raskolnikov, getting up. "No doubt it is a pleasure for a worn-out profligate to describe such adventures with a monstrous project of the same sort in his mind especially under such circumstances and to a person like me . . . It stimulating!" "Well, if you come to that," Svidrigailov answered, scrutinizing Raskolnikov with some surprise, "if you come to that, you are a thorough cynic yourself. You've plenty to make you so, anyway. You can understand a great deal . . . and you can do a great deal too. But enough. I sincerely regret not having talked to you more, but I shan't lose sight of you . . . Just wait a bit." Svidrigailov walked out of the restaurant. Raskolnikov walked out after him. Svidrigailov, however, was not very drunk, the wine had affected him for a moment, but it was wearing off every minute. He was preoccupied with something of importance and was frowning. He was apparently excited and uneasily anticipating something. His behavior towards Raskolnikov had changed during the last few minutes, and he was ruder and more sneering every moment. Raskolnikov noticed all this, and he too was uneasy. He became very suspicious of Svidrigailov and resolved to follow him. They came out on to the pavement. "You go right, and I go left, or if you like, the other way. Only adieu, mon plaisir,70 may we meet again." And he walked right towards the Haymarket. CHAPTER FIVE RASKOLNIKOV WALKED AFTER HIM. "What this?" cried Svidrigailov turning round, "I thought I said . . . " "It means that I am not going to lose sight of you now." "What?" Both stood still and gazed at one another, as though measuring their strength. "From all your half tipsy stories," Raskolnikov observed harshly, "I am convinced that you have not given up your designs on my sister, but are pursuing them more actively than ever. I have learnt that my sister received a letter this morning. You have hardly been able to sit still all this time . . . You may have unearthed a wife on the way, but that means nothing. I should like to make certain myself." Raskolnikov could hardly have said himself what he wanted and what he wished to make certain of. "My goodness! I'll call the police!" "Call away!" Again they stood for a minute facing each other. At last Svidrigailov face changed. Having satisfied himself that Raskolnikov was not frightened at his threat, he assumed a mirthful and friendly air. "What a person! I purposely avoided referring to your affair, though I am devoured by curiosity. It fantastic. I've put it off until another time, but you're enough to rouse the dead ... Well, let us go, only I warn you beforehand I am only going home for a moment, to get some money; then I shall lock up the apartment, take a cab and go to spend the evening at the Islands. Now, now are you going to follow me?" "I'm coming to your house, not to see you but Sofia Semionovna, to say I'm sorry not to have been at the funeral." "That as you like, but Sofia Semionovna is not at home. She has taken the three children to an old lady of high rank, the patroness of some orphan asylums, whom I used to know years ago. I charmed the old lady by depositing a sum of money with her to provide for the three children of Katerina Ivanovna and subscribing to the institution as well. I also told her the story of Sofia Semionovna in full detail, suppressing nothing. It produced an indescribable effect on her. That why Sofia Semionovna has been invited to call today at the X. Hotel where the lady is staying for the time." "It doesn't matter; I'll come all the same." "As you like, it nothing to me, but I won't come with you; here we are at home. By the way, I am convinced that you regard me with suspicion just because I have shown such delicacy and have not troubled you with questions so far . . . you understand? It struck you as extraordinary; I don't mind betting it that. Well, it teaches people to show delicacy!" "And to listen at doors!" "Ah, that it, is it?" laughed Svidrigailov. "Yes, I would have been surprised if you had let that pass after all that has happened. Ha-ha! Though I did understand something of the pranks you had been up to and were telling Sofia Semionovna about, what was the meaning of it? Perhaps I am quite behind the times and can't understand. For goodness' sake, explain it, my dear boy. Expound the latest theories!" "You couldn't have heard anything. You're making it all up!" "But I'm not talking about that (though I did hear something). No, I'm talking of the way you keep sighing and groaning now. The Schiller in you is in revolt every moment, and now you tell me not to listen at doors. If that how you feel, go and inform the police that you had this mischance; you made a little mistake in your theory. But if you are convinced that people shouldn't listen at doors but that they may murder old women at their pleasure, you'd better hurry off to America. Run, young man! There may still be time. I'm being sincere. Haven't you got the money? I'll give you the fare." "I'm not thinking of that at all," Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust. "I understand (but don't put yourself out, don't discuss it if you don't want to). I understand the questions you are worrying over moral ones, aren't they? Duties of citizen and man? Lay them all aside. They are nothing to you now, ha-ha! You'll say you are still a man and a citizen. If so you ought not to have got into this coil. It no use taking up a job you are not fit for. Well, you'd better shoot yourself, or don't you want to?" "You seem to be trying to enrage me, to make me leave you alone." "What a strange person! But here we are. Welcome to the staircase. You see, that the way to Sofia Semionovna. Look, there is no-one at home. Don't you believe me? Ask Kapernaumov. She leaves the key with him. Here is Madame de Kapernaumov herself. Hey, what? She is rather deaf. Has she gone out? Where? Did you hear? She is not in and won't be until late in the evening probably. Well, come to my room; you wanted to come and see me, didn't you? Here we are. Madame Resslich not at home. She is always busy, an excellent woman, I assure you . . . She might have been of use to you if you had been a little more sensible. Now, look! I'm taking this five per cent bond out of the bureau see what a lot I've got of them still this one will be turned into cash today. I mustn't waste any more time. The bureau is locked, the apartment is locked, and here we are again on the stairs. Shall we take a cab? I'm going to the Islands. Would you like a lift? I'll take this carriage. Ah, so you refuse? You are tired of it! Come for a drive! I believe it will rain. Never mind, we'll put down the hood . . . " Svidrigailov was already in the carriage. Raskolnikov decided that his suspicions were unjust, at least for the moment. Without answering a word he turned and walked back towards the Haymarket. If he had only turned round on his way he might have seen Svidrigailov get out not even a hundred paces away, dismiss the cab and walk along the pavement. But he had turned the corner and could see nothing. Intense disgust drew him away from Svidrigailov. "To think that I could for one instant have looked for help from that coarse brute, that depraved sensualist and blackguard!" he cried. Raskolnikov judgment was uttered too lightly and hastily: there was something about Svidrigailov which gave him a certain original, even a mysterious character. As concerned his sister, Raskolnikov was convinced that Svidrigailov would not leave her in peace. But it was too tiresome and unbearable to go on thinking and thinking about this. When he was alone, he had not gone twenty paces before he sank, as usual, into deep thought. On the bridge he stood by the railing and began gazing at the water. And his sister was standing close by him. He met her at the entrance to the bridge, but passed by without seeing her. Dunia had never met him like this in the street before and was struck with dismay. She stood still and did not know whether to call to him or not. Suddenly she saw Svidrigailov coming quickly from the direction of the Haymarket. He seemed to be approaching cautiously. He did not go on to the bridge, but stood aside on the pavement, doing all he could to avoid Raskolnikov seeing him. He had been observing Dunia for some time and had been making signs to her. She thought he was signaling to beg her not to speak to her brother, but to come towards him. That was what Dunia did. She stole past her brother and went up to Svidrigailov. "Let us hurry away," Svidrigailov whispered to her, "I don't want Rodion Romanovich to know about our meeting. I must tell you I've been sitting with him in the restaurant close by, where he looked me up, and I had great difficulty in getting rid of him. He has somehow heard of my letter to you and suspects something. It wasn't you who told him, of course, but if not you, who then?" "Well, we've turned the corner now," Dunia interrupted, "and my brother won't see us. I should tell you now that I am going no further with you. Speak to me here. You can tell me everything in the street." "In the first place, I can't say it in the street; secondly, you must hear Sofia Semionovna too; and, thirdly, I will show you some papers . . . Oh well, if you won't agree to come with me, I shall refuse to give any explanation and go away at once. But I beg you not to forget that a very curious secret of your beloved brother is entirely in my keeping." Dunia stood still, hesitating, and looked at Svidrigailov with searching eyes. "What are you afraid of?" he observed quietly. "The town is not the country. And even in the country you did me more harm than I did you." "Have you prepared Sofia Semionovna?" "No, I have not said a word to her and I am not quite certain whether she is at home now. But most likely she is. She has buried her stepmother today: she is not likely to go out visiting people on a day like that. For the time being I don't want to speak to anyone about it and I half regret having spoken to you. The slightest indiscretion is as bad as betrayal in a thing like this. I live there in that house, we are coming to it. That the porter of our house he knows me very well; you see, he bowing; he sees I'm coming with a lady and no doubt he has noticed your face already and you will be glad of that if you are afraid of me and suspicious. Excuse the fact that I'm putting things so coarsely. I haven't got an apartment to myself; Sofia Semionovna room is next to mine she lodges in the next apartment. The whole floor is let out to tenants. Why are you frightened? You look like a child. Am I really so terrible?" Svidrigailov lips were twisted in a condescending smile; but he was in no smiling mood. His heart was throbbing and he could scarcely breathe. He spoke rather loud to cover his growing excitement. But Dunia did not notice this curious excitement, she was so irritated by his remark that she was frightened of him, that she looked like a child and that he was so terrible to her. "Though I know that you are not a man . . . of honor, I am not in the least bit afraid of you. Lead the way," she said with apparent composure, but her face was very pale. Svidrigailov stopped at Sonia room. "Allow me to ask whether she is at home . . . She is not. How unfortunate! But I know she may come quite soon. If she gone out, it can only be to see a lady about the orphans. Their mother is dead . . . I've been meddling and making arrangements for them. If Sofia Semionovna does not come back in ten minutes, I will send her to you, today if you like. This is my apartment. These are my two rooms. Madame Resslich, my landlady, has the next room. Now, look this way. I will show you my chief piece of evidence: this door from my bedroom leads into two totally empty rooms, which are available for rent. Here they are . . . You must look into them with some attention." Svidrigailov occupied two fairly large furnished rooms. Dunia was looking around her mistrustfully, but saw nothing special in the furniture or in the position of the rooms. Yet there was something to observe, for instance, that Svidrigailov apartment was exactly between two sets of almost uninhabited apartments. His rooms were not entered directly from the passage, but through the landlady two almost empty rooms. Unlocking a door leading out of his bedroom, Svidrigailov showed Dunia the two empty rooms that were to let. Dunia stopped in the doorway, not knowing what she was being asked to look at, but Svidrigailov swiftly explained. "Look here, at this second large room. Notice that door, it locked. By the door stands a chair, the only one in the two rooms. I brought it from my rooms in order to listen more conveniently. Just the other side of the door is Sofia Semionovna table; she sat there talking to Rodion Romanovich. And I sat here listening on two successive evenings, for two hours at a time and of course I was able to learn something, what do you think?" "You listened?" "Yes, I did. Now come back to my room; we can't sit down here." He brought Avdotia Romanovna back into his sitting-room and offered her a chair. He sat down at the opposite side of the table, at least seven feet from her, but there was probably the same glow in his eyes which had once frightened Dunia so much. She shuddered and once more looked about her distrustfully. It was an involuntary gesture; she evidently did not wish to betray her uneasiness. But the secluded position of Svidrigailov lodging had suddenly struck her. She wanted to ask whether his landlady at least were at home, but pride kept her from asking. Moreover, she had another worry in her heart incomparably greater than fear for herself. She was in great distress. "Here is your letter," she said, laying it on the table. "Can it be true what you write? You hint at a crime committed, you say, by my brother. You hint at it too clearly; you daren't deny it now. I must tell you that I'd heard of this stupid story before you wrote and don't believe a word of it. It a disgusting and ridiculous suspicion. I know the story and why and how it was invented. You can't have any proof. You promised to prove it. Speak! But let me warn you that I don't believe you! I don't believe you!" Dunia said this, speaking hurriedly, and for an instant the color rushed to her face. "If you didn't believe it, how could you risk coming alone to my rooms? Why have you come? Just out of curiosity?" "Don't torment me. Speak, speak!" "There no denying that you are a brave girl. In all honesty, I thought you would have asked Mr. Razumikhin to escort you here. But he was not with you nor anywhere near. I was on the look-out. It courageous of you, it proves you wanted to spare Rodion Romanovich. But everything is divine in you . . . About your brother, what should I tell you? You've just seen him yourself. What did you think of him?" "Surely that not the only thing you are building on?" "No, not on that, but on his own words. He came here on two successive evenings to see Sofia Semionovna. I've shown you where they sat. He made a full confession to her. He is a murderer. He killed an old woman, a pawnbroker, with whom he had pawned things himself. He killed her sister too, a saleswoman called Lizaveta, who happened to come in while he was murdering her sister. He killed them with an axe he brought with him. He murdered them to rob them and he did rob them. He took money and various things . . . He told all this, word for word, to Sofia Semionovna, the only person who knows his secret. But she has had no share by word or deed in the murder; she was as horrified at it as you are now. Don't be anxious, she won't betray him." "It cannot be," muttered Dunia, with white lips. She gasped for breath. "It cannot be. There was not the slightest cause, no sort of ground . . . It a lie, a lie!" "He robbed her, that was the cause, he took money and various things. It true that by his own admission he made no use of the money or the things and hid them under a stone, where they are now. But that was because he did not dare make use of them." "But how could he steal, rob? How could he dream of it?" cried Dunia, and she jumped up from the chair. "But you know him, you've seen him, can he be a thief?" She seemed to be imploring Svidrigailov; she had entirely forgotten her fear. "There are thousands and millions of combinations and possibilities, Avdotia Romanovna. A thief steals and knows he is a scoundrel, but I've heard of a gentleman who broke open the mail. Who knows, very likely he thought he was doing a gentlemanly thing! Of course I should not have believed it myself if I'd been told of it as you have, but I believe my own ears. He explained all the causes of it to Sofia Semionovna too, but she did not believe her ears at first, yet she believed her own eyes at last." "What . . . were the causes?" "It a long story, Avdotia Romanovna. Here . . . how shall I tell you? A theory of a sort, the same one by which I for instance consider that a single misdeed is permissible if the principal aim is right, a solitary wrongdoing and hundreds of good deeds! It galling too, of course, for a young man of gifts and overweening pride to know that if he had, for instance, a paltry three thousand, his whole career, his whole future would be differently shaped and yet not to have that three thousand. Add to that, nervous irritability from hunger, from lodging in a hole, from rags, from a vivid sense of the charm of his social position and his sister and mother position too. Above all, vanity, pride and vanity, though goodness knows he may have good qualities too . . . I am not blaming him, please don't think it; besides, it not my business. A special little theory came in too a theory of a sort dividing mankind, you see, into material and superior people, that is people to whom the law does not apply owing to their superiority, who make laws for the rest of mankind, the material, that is. It all right as a theory, une th?(c)orie comme une autre.71 Napoleon attracted him tremendously, that is, what affected him was that a great many men of genius have not hesitated at wrongdoing, but have overstepped the law without thinking about it. He seems to have fancied that he was a genius too that is, he was convinced of it for a time. He has suffered a great deal and is still suffering from the idea that he could make a theory, but was incapable of boldly overstepping the law, and so he is not a man of genius. And that humiliating for a young man of any pride, in our day especially . . . " "But remorse? You deny him any moral feeling then? Is he like that?" "Ah, Avdotia Romanovna, everything is in a muddle now; not that it was ever in very good order. Russians in general are broad in their ideas, Avdotia Romanovna, broad like their land and extremely disposed to the fantastic, the chaotic. But it a misfortune to be broad without a special genius. Do you remember what a lot of talk we had together on this subject, sitting in the evenings on the terrace after supper? Why, you used to reproach me with breadth! Who knows, perhaps we were talking at the very time when he was lying here thinking over his plan. There are no sacred traditions amongst us, especially in the educated class, Avdotia Romanovna. At best someone will make them up somehow for himself from books or from some old chronicle. But those are for the most part the learned and all of them are old, so that it would be almost ill-bred in a man of society. You know my opinions in general, though. I never blame anyone. I do nothing at all, I persevere in that. But we've talked of this more than once before. I was so happy indeed as to interest you in my opinions . . . You are very pale, Avdotia Romanovna." "I know his theory. I read that article of his about men for whom everything is permissible. Razumikhin brought it to me." "Mr. Razumikhin? Your brother article? In a magazine? Is there such an article? I didn't know. It must be interesting. But where are you going, Avdotia Romanovna?" "I want to see Sofia Semionovna," Dunia articulated faintly. "How can I see her? Maybe she has come back. I must see her at once. Perhaps she . . . " Avdotia Romanovna could not finish. Her breath literally failed her. "Sofia Semionovna will not be back until nightfall, at least I believe not. She was going to come back at once, but if not, then she will not be in until pretty late." "Ah, then you are lying! I see . . . you were lying . . . lying all the time . . . I don't believe you! I don't believe you!" cried Dunia, completely losing her head. Almost fainting, she sank on to a chair which Svidrigailov hastily gave her. "Avdotia Romanovna, what is it? Control yourself! Here is some water. Drink a little . . . " He sprinkled some water over her. Dunia shuddered and came to herself. "It has acted violently," Svidrigailov muttered to himself, frowning. "Avdotia Romanovna, calm yourself! Believe me, he has friends. We will save him. Would you like me to take him abroad? I have money, I can get a ticket in three days. And as for the murder, he will do all sorts of good deeds yet, to atone for it. Calm yourself. He may become a great man yet. Well, how are you? How do you feel?" "You cruel man! How can you jeer at it! Let me go . . . " "Where are you going?" "To see him. Where is he? Do you know? Why is this door locked? We came in through that door and now it is locked. When did you manage to lock it?" "We couldn't be shouting all over the apartment about such a subject. I am far from jeering; it simply that I'm sick of talking like this. But how can you go in such a state? Do you want to betray him? You will drive him to fury, and he will give himself up. Let me tell you, he is already being watched; they are already on his trail. You will simply be giving him away. Wait a little: I saw him and was talking to him just now. He can still be saved. Wait a bit, sit down; let us think it over together. I asked you to come in order to discuss it alone with you and to consider it thoroughly. Sit down!" "How can you save him? Can he really be saved?" Dunia sat down. Svidrigailov sat down beside her. "It all depends on you, on you, on you alone," he began with glowing eyes, almost in a whisper and hardly able to utter the words for emotion. Dunia drew back from him in alarm. He too was trembling all over. "You . . . one word from you, and he is saved. I . . . I'll save him. I have money and friends. I'll send him away at once. I'll get a passport, two passports, one for him and one for me. I have friends . . . capable people . . . If you like, I'll take a passport for you . . . for your mother . . . What do you want with Razumikhin? I love you too . . . I love you beyond everything . . . Let me kiss the hem of your dress, let me, let me . . . The very rustle of it is too much for me. Tell me, ?Äòdo that,' and I'll do it. I'll do everything. I will do the impossible. What you believe, I will believe. I'll do anything anything! Don't, don't look at me like that. Do you know that you are killing me? . . . " He was almost beginning to rave . . . Something seemed suddenly to go to his head. Dunia jumped up and rushed to the door. "Open it! Open it!" she called, shaking the door. "Open it! Is there no-one there?" Svidrigailov got up and regained his composure. His still trembling lips slowly broke into an angry mocking smile. "There is no-one at home," he said quietly and emphatically. "The landlady has gone out, and it a waste of time to shout like that. You are only exciting yourself uselessly." "Where is the key? Open the door at once, at once, base man!" "I have lost the key and cannot find it." "This is an outrage," cried Dunia, turning pale as death. She rushed to the furthest corner, where she hurriedly barricaded herself with a little table. She did not scream, but fixed her eyes on her tormentor and watched every movement he made. Svidrigailov remained standing at the other end of the room facing her. He really was composed, at least in appearance, but his face was pale as before. The mocking smile did not leave his face. "You spoke of outrage just now, Avdotia Romanovna. In that case you may be sure I've taken measures. Sofia Semionovna is not at home. The Kapernaumovs are far away there are five locked rooms between. I am at least twice as strong as you are and I have nothing to fear, besides. For you could not complain afterwards. You surely would not be willing actually to betray your brother? Besides, no-one would believe you. Why would a girl have come alone to visit a solitary man in his lodgings? So that even if you do sacrifice your brother, you could prove nothing. It is very difficult to prove an assault, Avdotia Romanovna." "Scoundrel!" whispered Dunia indignantly. "As you like, but observe I was only speaking by way of a general proposition. It my personal conviction that you are perfectly right violence is hateful. I only spoke to show you that you need have no remorse even if . . . you were willing to save your brother of your own accord, as I have suggested to you. You would be simply submitting to circumstances, to violence, in fact, if we must use that word. Think about it. Your brother and your mother fate are in your hands. I will be your slave . . . all my life . . . I will wait here." Svidrigailov sat down on the sofa about eight steps from Dunia. She had not the slightest doubt now of his unbending determination. Besides, she knew him. Suddenly she pulled out of her pocket a revolver, cocked it and laid it in her hand on the table. Svidrigailov jumped up. "Aha! So that it, is it?" he cried, surprised but smiling maliciously. "Well, that completely alters the way we look at things. You've made things much easier for me, Avdotia Romanovna. But where did you get the revolver? Was it Mr. Razumikhin? Why, it my revolver, an old friend! And how I've hunted for it! The shooting lessons I've given you in the country have not been thrown away." "It not your revolver, it belonged to Marfa Petrovna, whom you killed, wretch! There was nothing of yours in her house. I took it when I began to suspect what you were capable of. If you dare to advance one step, I swear I'll kill you." She was frantic. "But your brother? I ask out of curiosity," said Svidrigailov, still standing where he was. "Inform on him, if you want to! Don't move! Don't come closer! I'll shoot! You poisoned your wife, I know; you are a murderer yourself!" She held the revolver ready. "Are you so positive I poisoned Marfa Petrovna?" "You did! You hinted it yourself! You spoke to me about poison . . . I know you went to get it . . . you had it ready . . . It was your doing . . . It must have been your doing . . . Blackguard!" "Even if that were true, it would have been for your sake . . . you would have been the cause." "You are lying! I hated you, always, always . . . " "Oh, Avdotia Romanovna! You seem to have forgotten how you softened to me in the heat of propaganda. I saw it in your eyes. Do you remember that moonlight night, when the nightingale was singing?" "That a lie," there was a flash of fury in Dunia eyes, "that a lie and a libel!" "A lie? Well, if you like, it a lie. I made it up. Women ought not to be reminded of such things," he smiled. "I know you will shoot, you pretty, wild creature. Well, shoot away!" Dunia raised the revolver, and deadly pale, gazed at him, measuring the distance and awaiting the first movement on his part. Her lower lip was white and quivering and her big black eyes flashed like fire. He had never seen her so beautiful. The fire glowing in her eyes at the moment she raised the revolver seemed to kindle him and there was a pang of anguish in his heart. He took a step forward and a shot rang out. The bullet grazed his hair and flew into the wall behind. He stood still and laughed softly. "The wasp has stung me. She aimed straight at my head. What this? Blood?" he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the blood, which flowed in a thin stream down his right temple. The bullet seemed to have just grazed the skin. Dunia lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigailov not so much in terror as in a sort of wild amazement. She seemed not to understand what she was doing and what was going on. "Well, you missed! Fire again, I'll wait," said Svidrigailov softly, still smiling, but gloomily. "If you go on like that, I shall have time to seize you before you cock again." Dunia started, quickly cocked the pistol and again raised it. "Let me be," she cried in despair. "I swear I'll shoot again. I . . . I'll kill you." "Well . . . at three paces you can hardly help it. But if you don't . . . then." His eyes flashed and he took two steps forward. Dunia shot again: it misfired. "You haven't loaded it properly. Never mind, you have another bullet there. Get it ready, I'll wait." He stood facing her, two paces away, waiting and gazing at her with wild determination, with feverishly passionate, stubborn, set eyes. Dunia saw that he would sooner die than let her go. "And . . . now, of course she would kill him, at two paces!" Suddenly she flung away the revolver. "She dropped it!" said Svidrigailov with surprise, and he drew a deep breath. A weight seemed to have rolled from his heart perhaps not only the fear of death; indeed, he may scarcely have felt it at that moment. It was the deliverance from another feeling, darker and more bitter, which he could not himself have defined. He went to Dunia and gently put his arm round her waist. She did not resist, but, trembling like a leaf, looked at him with imploring eyes. He tried to say something, but his lips moved without being able to utter a sound. "Let me go," Dunia implored. Svidrigailov shuddered. Her voice now was quite different. "Then you don't love me?" he asked softly. Dunia shook her head. "And . . . and you can't? Never?" he whispered in despair. "Never!" There followed a moment of terrible, dumb struggle in the heart of Svidrigailov. He looked at her with an indescribable gaze. Suddenly he withdrew his arm, turned quickly to the window and stood facing it. Another moment passed. "Here the key." He took it out of the left pocket of his coat and laid it on the table behind him, without turning or looking at Dunia. "Take it! Hurry!" He looked stubbornly out of the window. Dunia went up to the table to take the key. "Hurry! Hurry!" repeated Svidrigailov, still without turning or moving. But there seemed a terrible significance in the tone of that "hurry." Dunia understood it, snatched up the key, flew to the door, unlocked it quickly and rushed out of the room. A minute later, beside herself, she ran out on to the canal bank in the direction of X. Bridge. Svidrigailov spent three minutes standing at the window. At last he slowly turned, looked about him and passed his hand over his forehead. A strange smile contorted his face, a pitiful, sad, weak smile, a smile of despair. The blood, which was already getting dry, smeared his hand. He looked angrily at it, then wetted a towel and washed his temple. The revolver which Dunia had flung away lay near the door and suddenly caught his eye. He picked it up and examined it. It was a little pocket three-barrel revolver of old-fashioned construction. There were still two charges and one capsule left in it. It could be fired again. He thought a little, put the revolver in his pocket, took his hat and went out. CHAPTER SIX HE SPENT THAT EVENING until ten o'clock going from one low haunt to another. Katia too turned up and sang another gutter song, about how a certain "villain and tyrant" "began kissing Katia." Svidrigailov treated Katia and the organ-grinder and some singers and the waiters and two little clerks. He was particularly drawn to these clerks by the fact that they both had crooked noses, one bent to the left and the other to the right. They took him finally to a pleasure garden, where he paid for their entrance. There was one lanky three-year-old pine tree and three bushes in the garden, besides a "Vauxhall,"72 which was in reality a drinking-bar where tea too was served, and there were a few green tables and chairs standing round it. A chorus of wretched singers and a drunken, but extremely depressed German clown from Munich with a red nose entertained the public. The clerks quarrelled with some other clerks and a fight seemed imminent. Svidrigailov was chosen to decide the dispute. He listened to them for a quarter of an hour, but they shouted so loud that there was no possibility of understanding them. The only fact that seemed certain was that one of them had stolen something and had even succeeded in selling it on the spot to a Jew, but would not share the spoil with his companion. Finally it appeared that the stolen object was a teaspoon belonging to the Vauxhall. It was missed and the affair began to seem troublesome. Svidrigailov paid for the spoon, got up, and walked out of the garden. It was about six o'clock. He had not drunk a drop of wine all this time and had ordered tea more for the sake of appearances than anything. It was a dark and stifling evening. Threatening storm-clouds came over the sky at about ten o'clock. There was a clap of thunder, and the rain came down like a waterfall. The water did not fall in drops, but beat on the earth in streams. There were flashes of lightning every minute and each flash lasted while one could count five. Drenched to the skin, he went home, locked himself in, opened the bureau, took out all his money and tore up two or three papers. Then, putting the money in his pocket, he was about to change his clothes, but, looking out of the window and listening to the thunder and the rain, he gave up the idea, took up his hat and went out of the room without locking the door. He went straight to Sonia. She was at home. She was not alone: the four Kapernaumov children were with her. She was giving them tea. She received Svidrigailov in respectful silence, looking wonderingly at his soaking clothes. The children all ran away at once in indescribable terror. Svidrigailov sat down at the table and asked Sonia to sit beside him. She timidly prepared to listen. "I may be going to America, Sofia Semionovna," said Svidrigailov," and as I am probably seeing you for the last time, I have come to make some arrangements. Well, did you see the lady today? I know what she said to you, you need not tell me." (Sonia made a movement and blushed.) "Those people have their own way of doing things. As to your sisters and your brother, they are really provided for and the money assigned to them I've put into safe keeping and have received acknowledgments. You had better take charge of the receipts, in case anything happens. Here, take them! Well, now that settled. Here are three 5 per cent bonds to the value of three thousand rubles. Take those for yourself, entirely for yourself, and let that be strictly between ourselves, so that no-one knows of it, whatever you hear. You will need the money, because to go on living in the old way, Sofia Semionovna, is bad, and besides there is no need for it now." "I am so obliged to you, and so are the children and my step- mother," said Sonia hurriedly, "and if I've said so little . . . please don't consider . . . " "That enough! That enough!" "But as for the money, Arkady Ivanovich, I am very grateful to you, but I don't need it now. I can always earn my own living. Don't think me ungrateful. If you are so charitable, that money . . . " "It for you, for you, Sofia Semionovna, and please don't waste words over it. I haven't got the time for it. You will want it. Rodion Romanovich has two alternatives: a bullet in the brain or Siberia." (Sonia looked wildly at him, and started.) "Don't be uneasy, I know all about it from his own lips and I am not a gossip; I won't tell anyone. It was good advice when you told him to give himself up and confess. It would be much better for him. Well, if it turns out to be Siberia, he will go and you will follow him. That so, isn't it? And if so, you'll need money. You'll need it for him, do you understand? Giving it to you is the same as my giving it to him. Besides, you promised Amalia Ivanovna to pay what you owe. I heard you. How can you undertake such obligations so carelessly, Sofia Semionovna? It was Katerina Ivanovna debt and not yours, so you ought not to have taken any notice of the German woman. You can't get through the world like that. If you are ever questioned about me tomorrow or the day after you will be asked don't say anything about the fact that I am coming to see you now and don't show the money to anyone or say a word about it. Well, now, goodbye." (He got up.) "My greetings to Rodion Romanovich. By the way, you'd better put the money for the present in Mr. Razumikhin keeping. You know Mr. Razumikhin? Of course you do. He not a bad man. Take it to him tomorrow or . . . when the time comes. And until then, hide it carefully." Sonia, too, jumped up from her chair and looked in dismay at Svidrigailov. She longed to speak, to ask a question, but for the first moments she did not dare and did not know how to begin. "How can you . . . how can you be going now, in rain like this?" "What, set off for America, and get stopped by the rain! Ha, ha! goodbye, Sofia Semionovna, my dear! Live and live long, you will be of use to others. By the way . . . tell Mr. Razumikhin I send my greetings to him. Tell him Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov sends his greetings. Be sure to." He went out, leaving Sonia in a state of wondering anxiety and vague apprehension. It appeared afterwards that on the same evening, at twenty past eleven, he made another very eccentric and unexpected visit. The rain still persisted. Drenched to the skin, he walked into the little apartment where the parents of his fianc?(c)e lived, in Third Street on Vassilyevsky Island. He knocked for some time before he was admitted, and his visit at first caused a great disturbance; but Svidrigailov could be very fascinating when he liked, so that the first and in fact very intelligent surmise of the sensible parents that Svidrigailov had probably had so much to drink that he did not know what he was doing vanished immediately. The decrepit father was wheeled in to see Svidrigailov by the tender and sensible mother, who as usual began the conversation with various irrelevant questions. She never asked a direct question, but began by smiling and rubbing her hands and then, if she had to ask about some detail for instance, when Svidrigailov would like to have the wedding she would start with interested and almost eager questions about Paris and the court life there, and only by degrees brought the conversation round to Third Street. On other occasions this had of course been very impressive, but this time Arkady Ivanovich seemed particularly impatient, and insisted on seeing his betrothed at once, though he had been informed to begin with that she had already gone to bed. The girl of course appeared. Svidrigailov informed her at once that very important affairs obliged him to leave Petersburg for a time, that he had therefore brought her fifteen thousand rubles and that he begged her accept them as a present from him, as he had long been intending to make her this trifling present before their wedding. The logical connection of the present with his immediate departure and the absolute necessity of visiting them for that purpose in pouring rain at midnight was not made clear. But it all came off very well; even the inevitable questions, the inevitable expressions of wonder and regret were extraordinarily few and restrained. On the other hand, the gratitude expressed was remarkably glowing and was reinforced by tears from this most sensible of mothers. Svidrigailov got up, laughed, kissed his fianc?(c)e, patted her cheek, declared he would soon come back, and noticing in her eyes, along with childish curiosity, a sort of earnest, dumb inquiry, reflected and kissed her again, though he felt sincere anger inwardly at the thought that his present would be immediately locked up in the keeping of the most sensible of mothers. He went away, leaving them all in a state of extraordinary excitement, but the tender mamma, speaking quietly in a half whisper, settled some of the most important of their doubts, concluding that Svidrigailov was a great man, a man of great affairs and connections and of great wealth there was no knowing what he had in his mind. He would start off on a journey and give away money just as his fancy took him, so there was nothing surprising about it. Of course it was strange that he was wet through, but Englishmen, for instance, are even more eccentric, and all these people of high society didn't think about what people said and didn't stand on ceremony. In fact, he may have come like that on purpose to show that he was not afraid of anyone. Above all, not a word should be said about it, because God knows what might come of it, and the money must be locked up, and it was extremely fortunate that Fedosia, the cook, had not left the kitchen. And above all not a word must be said to that old cat, Madame Resslich, and so on and so on. They sat up whispering until two o'clock, but the girl went to bed much earlier, amazed and rather sorrowful. Meanwhile, at midnight exactly, Svidrigailov crossed the bridge on the way back to the mainland. The rain had ceased and there was a roaring wind. He began shivering, and for one moment he gazed at the black waters of the Little Neva with a look of special interest, even inquiry. But he soon felt it very cold, standing by the water; he turned and went towards Y____ Prospect. He walked along that endless street for a long time, almost half an hour, more than once stumbling in the dark on the wooden pavement, but continually looking for something on the right side of the street. He had noticed passing through this street recently that there was a hotel somewhere near the end, built of wood, but fairly large, and its name, he remembered, was something like Adrianople. He was not mistaken: the hotel was so conspicuous in that God-forsaken place that he could not fail to see it even in the dark. It was a long, blackened wooden building, and although it was late there were lights in the windows and signs of life within. He went in and asked a ragged fellow who met him in the corridor for a room. The latter, scanning Svidrigailov, pulled himself together and led him at once to a tiny, stuffy room in the distance, at the end of the corridor, under the stairs. There was no other room; all of them were occupied. The ragged fellow looked inquiringly. "Is there tea?" asked Svidrigailov. "Yes, sir." "What else is there?" "Veal, vodka, savories." "Bring me tea and veal." "And you don't want anything else?" he asked with apparent surprise. "Nothing, nothing." The ragged man went away, completely disillusioned. "It must be a nice place," thought Svidrigailov. "How was it I didn't know it? I expect I look as if I came from a caf?(c) chantant and had some adventure on the way. It would be interesting to know who stayed here." He lit the candle and looked at the room more carefully. It was so low-pitched that Svidrigailov could only just stand up in it; it had one window; the bed, which was very dirty, and the plain stained chair and table almost filled it up. The walls looked as though they were made of planks, covered with shabby paper, so torn and dusty that the pattern was indistinguishable, though the general color yellow could still be made out. One of the walls was cut short by the sloping ceiling, though the room was not an attic, but just under the stairs. Svidrigailov put down the candle, sat down on the bed and sank into thought. But a strange persistent murmur which sometimes rose to a shout in the next room attracted his attention. The murmur had not ceased from the moment he entered the room. He listened: someone was upbraiding and almost tearfully scolding, but he heard only one voice. Svidrigailov got up, shaded the light with his hand and at once he saw light through a crack in the wall; he went up and peeped through. The room, which was somewhat larger than his, had two occupants. One of them, a very curly-headed man with a red inflamed face, was standing like an orator, without his coat, with his legs wide apart to keep his balance, and smiting himself on the chest. He reproached the other with being a beggar, with having no standing whatsoever. He declared that he had taken the other one out of the gutter and he could turn him out when he liked, and that only the finger of Providence sees it all. The object of his reproaches was sitting in a chair, and had the air of a man who desperately wants to sneeze, but can't. He sometimes turned sheepish and misty eyes on the speaker, but obviously had not the slightest idea what he was talking about and scarcely heard it. A candle was burning down on the table; there were wine glasses, a nearly empty bottle of vodka, bread and cucumber, and glasses with the dregs of stale tea. After gazing attentively at this, Svidrigailov turned away indifferently and sat down on the bed. The ragged attendant, returning with the tea, could not resist asking him again whether he didn't want anything more, and again receiving a negative reply, finally withdrew. Svidrigailov swiftly drank a glass of tea to warm himself, but could not eat anything. He began to feel feverish. He took off his coat and, wrapping himself in the blanket, lay down on the bed. He was annoyed. "It would have been better to be well for the occasion," he thought with a smile. The room was close, the candle burnt dimly, the wind was roaring outside, he heard a mouse scratching in the corner and the room smelt of mice and of leather. He lay in a sort of reverie: one thought followed another. He felt a longing to fix his imagination on something. "It must be a garden under the window," he thought. "There a sound of trees. How I dislike the sound of trees on a stormy night, in the dark! They give me a horrible feeling." He remembered how he had disliked it when he passed Petrovsky Park just now. This reminded him of the bridge over the Little Neva and he felt cold again as he had when standing there. "I never have liked water," he thought, "even in a landscape," and he suddenly smiled again at a strange idea: "Surely now all these questions of taste and comfort ought not to matter, but I've become more particular, like an animal that picks out a special place . . . for such an occasion. I ought to have gone into Petrovsky Park! I suppose it seemed dark, cold, ha-ha! As though I were looking for pleasant sensations! . . . By the way, why haven't I put out the candle?" he blew it out. "They've gone to bed next door," he thought, not seeing the light at the crack. "Well, now, Marfa Petrovna, now is the time for you to turn up; it dark, and the very time and place for you. But now you won't come!" He suddenly recalled how, an hour before carrying out his plan involving Dunia, he had recommended Raskolnikov to trust her to Razumikhin keeping. "I suppose I really did say it, as Raskolnikov guessed, to tease myself. But what a rogue that Raskolnikov is! He gone through a good deal. He may be a successful rogue in time when he got over his nonsense. But now he too eager for life. These young men are contemptible on that point. But damn him! Let him please himself, it nothing to do with me." He could not get to sleep. By degrees Dunia image rose before him, and a shudder ran over him. "No, I must give up all that now," he thought, rousing himself. "I must think of something else. It strange. I never had any great hatred for anyone, I never particularly wanted to revenge myself even, and that a bad sign, a bad sign, a bad sign. I never liked quarrelling either, and never lost my temper that a bad sign too. And the promises I made her just now, too Damnation! But who knows? perhaps she would have made a new man of me somehow . . . " He ground his teeth and sank into silence again. Again Dunia image rose before him, just as she was when, after shooting the first time, she had lowered the revolver in terror and gazed blankly at him, so that he might have seized her twice over and she would not have lifted a hand to defend herself if he had not reminded her. He recalled how at that instant he felt almost sorry for her, how he had felt a pang at his heart . . . "Ah! God, these thoughts again! I must put them away!" He was dozing off; the feverish shiver had stopped, when suddenly something seemed to run over his arm and leg under the bedclothes. He started. "Ugh! Damn it! I think it a mouse," he thought, "that the veal I left on the table." He was extremely unwilling to pull off the blanket, get up, get cold, but suddenly something unpleasant ran over his leg again. He pulled off the blanket and lighted the candle. Shaking in a feverish chill, he bent down to examine the bed: there was nothing. He shook the blanket and suddenly a mouse jumped out on the sheet. He tried to catch it, but the mouse ran to and fro in zigzags without leaving the bed, slipped between his fingers, ran over his hand and suddenly darted under the pillow. He threw down the pillow, but in one instant felt something leap on his chest and dart over his body and down his back under his shirt. He trembled nervously and woke up. The room was dark. He was lying on the bed and wrapped up in the blanket as before. The wind was howling under the window. "How disgusting," he thought with annoyance. He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to the window. "It better not to sleep at all," he decided. There was a cold damp draught from the window, however; without getting up he drew the blanket over him and wrapped himself in it. He was not thinking of anything and did not want to think. But one image rose after another, incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through his mind. He sank into drowsiness. Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or the dark, or the wind that howled under the window and tossed the trees roused a sort of persistent craving for the fantastic. He kept dwelling on images of flowers, he imagined a charming flower garden, a bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday Trinity Sunday. A fine, sumptuous country cottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was surrounded with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. He noticed particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. He was reluctant to move away from them, but he went up the stairs and came into a large, high drawing-room and again everywhere at the windows, the doors onto the balcony, and on the balcony itself were flowers. The floors were strewn with fragrant, freshly-cut hay, the windows were open, a fresh, cool, light air came into the room. The birds were chirruping under the window, and in the middle of the room, on a table covered with a white satin shroud, stood a coffin. The coffin was covered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill; wreaths of flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the flowers lay a girl in a white muslin dress, with her arms crossed and pressed on her bosom, as though carved out of marble. But her loose fair hair was wet; there was a wreath of roses on her head. The stern and already rigid profile of her face looked as though it too was chiseled of marble, and the smile on her pale lips was full of an immense unchildish misery and sorrowful appeal. Svidrigailov knew that girl. There was no holy image, no burning candle beside the coffin, no sound of prayers; the girl had drowned herself. She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken. And she had destroyed herself, crushed by an insult that had appalled and amazed that childish soul, had corrupted that angel purity with unmerited disgrace and torn from her a last scream of despair, brutally disregarded, on a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled . . . Svidrigailov came to, got up from the bed and went to the window. He felt for the latch and opened it. The wind lashed furiously into the little room and stung his face and his chest, only covered with his shirt, as though with frost. Under the window there must have been something like a garden, and apparently a pleasure garden. There, too, probably there were tea tables and singing in the daytime. Now drops of rain flew in at the window from the trees and bushes; it was as dark as in a cellar, so that he could only just make out some dark blurs of objects. Svidrigailov, bending down with elbows on the window-sill, gazed for five minutes into the darkness; the boom of a cannon, followed by a second one, resounded in the darkness of the night. "Ah, the signal! The river is overflowing," he thought. "By morning it will be swirling down the street in the lower parts, flooding the basements and cellars. The cellar rats will swim out, and men will curse in the rain and wind as they drag their rubbish to their upper floors. What time is it now?" And he had hardly thought it when, somewhere near, a clock on the wall, ticking away hurriedly, struck three. "Aha! It will be light in an hour! Why wait? I'll go out at once, straight to the park. I'll choose a great bush there drenched with rain, so that as soon as one shoulder touches it, millions of drops drip on one head." He moved away from the window, shut it, lit the candle, put on his waistcoat, his overcoat and his hat and went out, carrying the candle, into the passage to look for the ragged attendant who would be asleep somewhere in the midst of candle ends and all sorts of rubbish, to pay him for the room and leave the hotel. "It the best moment; I couldn't choose a better one." He walked for some time through a long narrow corridor without finding anyone and was just going to call out, when suddenly in a dark corner between an old cupboard and the door he caught sight of a strange object which seemed to be alive. He bent down with the candle and saw a little girl, not more than five years old, shivering and crying, with her clothes as wet as a soaking house-flannel. She did not seem afraid of Svidrigailov, but looked at him with blank amazement out of her big black eyes. Now and then she sobbed as children do when they have been crying a long time, but are starting to be comforted. The child face was pale and tired, she was numb with cold. "How can she have come here? She must have hidden here and not slept all night." He began questioning her. The child suddenly became animated, chattered away in her baby language, something about "Mother" and that "Mother would beat her," and about some cup that she had "bwoken." The child chattered on without stopping. He could only guess from what she said that she was a neglected child, whose mother, probably a drunken cook, in the service of the hotel, whipped and frightened her; that the child had broken a cup of her mother and was so frightened that she had run away the evening before, had hidden for a long while somewhere outside in the rain, at last had made her way in here, hidden behind the cupboard and spent the night there, crying and trembling from the damp, the darkness and the fear that she would be badly beaten for it. He took her in his arms, went back to his room, sat her on the bed, and began undressing her. The torn shoes which she had on her stockingless feet were as wet as if they had been standing in a puddle all night. When he had undressed her, he put her on the bed, covered her up and wrapped her in the blanket from her head downwards. She fell asleep at once. Then he sank into dreary musing again. "How stupid it was to trouble myself," he decided suddenly with an oppressive feeling of annoyance. "What idiocy!" In vexation he picked up the candle to go and look for the ragged attendant again and leave. "Damn the child!" he thought as he opened the door, but he turned again to see whether the child was asleep. He raised the blanket carefully. The child was sleeping soundly, she had got warm under the blanket, and her pale cheeks were flushed. But strange to say that flush seemed brighter and coarser than the rosy cheeks of childhood. "It a flush of fever," thought Svidrigailov. It was like the flush from drinking, as though she had been given a full glass to drink. Her crimson lips were hot and glowing; but what was this? He suddenly fancied that her long black eyelashes were quivering, as though the lids were opening and a sly crafty eye peeped out with an unchildlike wink, as though the little girl were not asleep, but pretending. Yes, it was so. Her lips parted in a smile. The corners of her mouth quivered, as though she were trying to control them. But now she quite gave up all effort, now it was a grin, a broad grin; there was something shameless, provocative in that quite unchildish face; it was depravity, it was the face of a harlot, the shameless face of a French harlot. Now both eyes opened wide; they turned a glowing, shameless glance upon him; they laughed, invited him . . . There was something infinitely hideous and shocking in that laugh, in those eyes, in such nastiness in the face of a child. "What, at five years old?" Svidrigailov muttered in genuine horror. "What does it mean?" And now she turned to him, her little face all aglow, holding out her arms . . . "Damned child!" Svidrigailov cried, raising his hand to strike her, but at that moment he woke up. He was in the same bed, still wrapped in the blanket. The candle had not been lighted, and daylight was streaming in at the windows. "I've been having bad dreams all night!" He got up angrily, feeling utterly shattered; his bones ached. There was a thick mist outside and he could see nothing. It was nearly five. He had overslept! He got up, put on his still damp jacket and overcoat. Feeling the revolver in his pocket, he took it out and then he sat down, took a notebook out of his pocket and in the most conspicuous place on the title page wrote a few lines in large letters. Reading them over, he sank into thought with his elbows on the table. The revolver and the notebook lay beside him. Some flies woke up and settled on the untouched veal, which was still on the table. He stared at them and at last with his free right hand began trying to catch one. He tried until he was tired, but could not catch it. At last, realizing that he was engaged in this interesting pursuit, he started, got up and walked resolutely out of the room. A minute later he was in the street. A thick milky mist hung over the town. Svidrigailov walked along the slippery dirty wooden pavement towards the Little Neva. He was picturing the waters of the Little Neva swollen in the night, Petrovsky Island, the wet paths, the wet grass, the wet trees and bushes and at last the bush . . . He began ill-humoredly staring at the houses, trying to think of something else. There was not a cabman or a passerby in the street. The bright yellow, wooden, little houses looked dirty and dejected with their closed shutters. The cold and damp penetrated his whole body and he began to shiver. From time to time he came across store signs and read each carefully. At last he reached the end of the wooden pavement and came to a big stone house. A dirty, shivering dog crossed his path with its tail between its legs. A man in an overcoat lay dead drunk, face downwards across the pavement. He looked at him and went on. A high tower stood up on the left. "Bah!" he shouted, "here is a place. Why should it be Petrovsky? It will be in the presence of an official witness anyway . . . " He almost smiled at this new thought and turned into the street where there was the big house with the tower. At the great closed gates of the house, a little man stood with his shoulder leaning against them, wrapped in a gray soldier coat, with a copper Achilles helmet on his head. He cast a drowsy and indifferent glance at Svidrigailov. His face wore that perpetual look of peevish dejection, which is so sourly printed on all faces of Jewish race without exception. Both of them, Svidrigailov and Achilles, stared at each other for a few minutes without speaking. At last it struck Achilles that it was unusual for a man not drunk to be standing three steps from him, staring and not saying a word. "What do you want here?" he said, without moving or changing his position. "Nothing, my friend, good morning," answered Svidrigailov. "This isn't the place." "I am going to foreign lands, my friend." "To foreign lands?" "To America." "America." Svidrigailov took out the revolver and cocked it. Achilles raised his eyebrows. "I told you, this is no place for jokes!" "Why shouldn't it be the place?" "Because it isn't." "Well, my friend, I don't mind. It a good place. When you are asked, you just say he was going, he said, to America." He put the revolver to his right temple. "You can't do it here, it not the place," cried Achilles, rousing himself, his eyes growing bigger and bigger. Svidrigailov pulled the trigger. CHAPTER SEVEN THE SAME DAY, ABOUT seven o'clock in the evening, Raskolnikov was on his way to his mother and sister lodging the apartment in Bakaleyev house which Razumikhin had found for them. The stairs went up from the street. Raskolnikov walked with lagging steps, as though still hesitating whether to go or not. But nothing would have turned him back: his decision was taken. "Besides, it doesn't matter, they still know nothing," he thought, "and they are used to thinking of me as an eccentric." He was appallingly dressed: his clothes torn and dirty, soaked with a night rain. His face was almost distorted from fatigue, exposure, the inward conflict that had lasted for twenty-four hours. He had spent all the previous night alone, God knows where. But anyway he had reached a decision. He knocked at the door which was opened by his mother. Dunia was not at home. Even the servant happened to be out. At first Pulcheria Alexandrovna was speechless with joy and surprise; then she took him by the hand and drew him into the room. "Here you are!" she began, faltering with joy. "Don't be angry with me, Rodia, for welcoming you so foolishly with tears: I am laughing, not crying. Did you think I was crying? No, I am delighted, but I've got into such a stupid habit of shedding tears. I've been like that ever since your father death. I cry for anything. Sit down, dear boy, you must be tired; I see you are. Ah, how muddy you are." "I was in the rain yesterday, Mother . . . " Raskolnikov began. "No, no," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interrupted, "you thought I was going to question you in the womanish way I used to. Don't be anxious, I understand, I understand it all; now I've learned how things are here I can see for myself that they are better. I've made up my mind once for all: how could I understand your plans and expect you to give an account of them? God knows what concerns and plans you may have, or what ideas you are hatching; so it not for me to keep nudging your elbow, asking you what you are thinking about. But, my goodness! Why am I running to and fro as though I were crazy . . . ? I am reading your article in the magazine for the third time, Rodia. Dmitri Prokofich brought it to me. When I saw it I cried out to myself, there you are, you foolish old thing, I thought, that what he busy about; that the solution of the mystery! Learned people are always like that. He may have some new ideas in his head just now; he is thinking them over and I worry him and upset him. I read it, my dear, and of course there was a great deal I did not understand; but that only natural how should I?" "Show me, Mother." Raskolnikov took the magazine and glanced at his article. Incongruous as it was with his mood and his circumstances, he felt that strange and bitter sweet sensation that every author experiences the first time he sees himself in print; besides, he was only twenty-three. It lasted only a moment. After reading a few lines he frowned and his heart throbbed with anguish. He recalled all the inward conflict of the preceding months. He flung the article on the table with disgust and anger. "But, however foolish I may be, Rodia, I can see for myself that you will very soon be one of the leading if not the leading man in the world of Russian thought. And they dared to think you were mad! You don't know, but they really thought that. Ah, the despicable creatures, how could they understand genius! And Dunia, Dunia was all but believing it what do you say to that! Your father sent things twice to magazines the first time, poems (I've got the manuscript, I'll show you), and the second time a whole novel (I begged him to let me copy it out) and how we prayed that they would be taken they weren't! I was breaking my heart, Rodia, six or seven days ago over your food and your clothes and the way you are living. But now I see again how foolish I was, for you can attain any position you like by your intellect and talent. No doubt you don't care about that for the moment, and you are occupied with much more important matters . . . " "Dunia not at home, Mother?" "No, Rodia. I often don't see her; she leaves me alone. Dmitri Prokofich comes to see me, it so good of him, and he always talks about you. He loves you and respects you, my dear. I wouldn't say that Dunia was inconsiderate towards me. I am not complaining. She has her ways and I have mine; she seems to have got some secrets of late and I never have any secrets from you two. Of course, I am sure that Dunia has far too much sense, and besides she loves you and me ... but I don't know what it will all lead to. You've made me so happy by coming now, Rodia, but she has missed you by going out; when she comes in I'll tell her, ?ÄòYour brother came in while you were out.' Where have you been all this time? You mustn't spoil me, Rodia, you know; come when you can, but if you can't, it doesn't matter, I can wait. I shall know, anyway, that you are fond of me, that will be enough for me. I shall read what you write, I shall hear about you from everyone, and sometimes you'll come yourself to see me. What could be better? Here you've come now to comfort your mother, I see that." Here Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry. "Here I am again! Don't mind my foolishness. My goodness, why am I sitting here?" she cried, jumping up. "There is coffee and I don't offer you any. Ah, that the selfishness of old age. I'll get it at once!" "Mother, don't trouble yourself, I am going now. I haven't come for that. Please listen to me." Pulcheria Alexandrovna went up to him timidly. "Mother, whatever happens, whatever you hear about me, whatever you are told about me, will you always love me as you do now?" he asked suddenly from the fullness of his heart, as though not thinking of his words and not weighing them. "Rodia, Rodia, what is the matter? How can you ask me such a question? Why, who will tell me anything about you? Besides, I wouldn't believe anyone, I would refuse to listen." "I've come to reassure you that I've always loved you and I am glad that we are alone, even glad Dunia is out," he went on with the same impulse. "I have come to tell you that though you will be unhappy, you must believe that your son loves you now more than himself, and that everything you thought about me, that I was cruel and didn't care about you, was all a mistake. I shall never stop loving you . . . Well, that enough: I thought I must do this and start with this . . . " Pulcheria Alexandrovna embraced him in silence, pressing him to her bosom and weeping gently. "I don't know what is wrong with you, Rodia," she said at last. "I've been thinking all this time that we were simply boring you and now I see that there is great sorrow in store for you, and that why you are miserable. I've seen it coming for a long time, Rodia. Forgive me for speaking about it. I keep thinking about it and lie awake at nights. Your sister lay talking in her sleep all last night, talking of nothing but you. I caught something, but I couldn't make it out. I felt all morning as though I were going to be hanged, waiting for something, expecting something, and now it has come! Rodia, Rodia, where are you going? You are going away somewhere?" "Yes." "That what I thought! I can come with you, you know, if you need me. And Dunia, too; she loves you, she loves you dearly and Sofia Semionovna may come with us if you like. You see, I am glad to look upon her as a daughter even . . . Dmitri Prokofich will help us to go together. But . . . where . . . are you going?" "Goodbye, Mother." "What, today?" she cried, as though she were losing him forever. "I can't stay, I must go now . . . " "And can't I come with you?" "No, but kneel down and pray to God for me. Your prayer perhaps will reach Him." "Let me bless you and sign you with the cross. That right, that right. Oh, God, what are we doing?" Yes, he was glad, he was very glad that there was no-one there, that he was alone with his mother. For the first time after all those awful months his heart was softened. He fell down in front of her, he kissed her feet and both of them wept, embracing. And she was not surprised and did not question him this time. For some days she had realized that something awful was happening to her son and that now some terrible moment had come for him. "Rodia, my darling, my firstborn," she said, sobbing, "now you are just as when you were little. You would run like this to me and hug me and kiss me. When your father was alive and we were poor, you comforted us simply by being with us and when I buried your father, how often we wept together at his grave and embraced, as now. And if I've been crying recently, it because my mother heart has had a foreboding of trouble. The first time I saw you, that evening you remember, as soon as we arrived here, I guessed it just from your eyes. My heart sank at once, and today when I opened the door and looked at you, I thought the fatal hour had come. Rodia, Rodia, you are not going away today?" "No!" "You'll come again?" "Yes . . . I'll come." "Rodia, don't be angry, I don't dare question you. I know I mustn't. Just tell me is it far where you are going?" "Very far." "What is awaiting you there? Some post or career for you?" "What God sends . . . just pray for me." Raskolnikov went to the door, but she clutched him and gazed despairingly into his eyes. Her face was gripped with terror. "Enough, Mother," said Raskolnikov, deeply regretting that he had come. "Not forever, it not yet forever? You'll come, you'll come tomorrow?" "I will, I will, goodbye." He tore himself away at last. It was a warm, fresh, bright evening; it had cleared up in the morning. Raskolnikov went to his lodgings; he made haste. He wanted to finish everything before sunset. He did not want to meet anyone until then. Going up the stairs he noticed that Nastasia rushed from the samovar to watch him intently. "Can anyone have come to see me?" he wondered. He had a disgusted vision of Porfiry. But opening his door he saw Dunia. She was sitting alone, plunged in deep thought, and looked as though she had been waiting a long time. He stopped short in the doorway. She rose from the sofa in dismay and stood up facing him. Her eyes fixed upon him, betrayed horror and infinite grief. And from those eyes alone he saw at once that she knew. "Should I come in or go away?" he asked uncertainly. "I've been all day with Sofia Semionovna. We were both waiting for you. We thought that you would be sure to come here." Raskolnikov went into the room and sank exhausted on a chair. "I feel weak, Dunia, I am very tired; and I would have liked at this moment to be able to control myself." He glanced at her mistrustfully. "Where were you all night?" "I don't remember clearly. You see, sister, I wanted to make up my mind once and for all, and several times I walked by the Neva, I remember that I wanted to end it all there, but . . . I couldn't make up my mind," he whispered, looking at her mistrustfully again. "Thank God! That was just what we were afraid of, Sofia Semionovna and I. Then you still have faith in life? Thank God, thank God!" Raskolnikov smiled bitterly. "I haven't any faith, but I have just been weeping in our mother arms; I haven't any faith, but I have just asked her to pray for me. I don't know how it is, Dunia, I don't understand it." "Have you been to see her? Have you told her?" cried Dunia, horror-stricken. "Surely you haven't done that?" "No, I didn't tell her . . . in words; but she understood a great deal. She heard you talking in your sleep. I am sure she half understands it already. Perhaps I was wrong to go and see her. I don't know why I did go. I am a contemptible person, Dunia." "A contemptible person, but ready to face suffering! You are, aren't you?" "Yes, I am going. At once. Yes, to escape the disgrace I thought of drowning myself, Dunia, but as I looked into the water, I thought that if I had considered myself strong until now I'd better not be afraid of disgrace," he said, hurrying on. "It pride, Dunia." "Pride, Rodia." There was a gleam of fire in his lusterless eyes; he seemed to be glad to think that he was still proud. "You don't think, sister, that I was simply afraid of the water?" he asked, looking into her face with a sinister smile. "Oh, Rodia, hush!" cried Dunia bitterly. Silence lasted for two minutes. He sat with his eyes fixed on the floor; Dunia stood at the other end of the table and looked at him with anguish. Suddenly he got up. "It late, it time to go! I am going at once to give myself up. But I don't know why I am going to give myself up." Big tears fell down her cheeks. "You are crying, sister, but can you hold out your hand to me?" "You doubted it?" She threw her arms round him. "Aren't you half atoning for your crime by facing the suffering!" she cried, holding him close and kissing him. "Crime? What crime?" he cried in sudden fury. "That I killed a vile noxious insect, an old pawnbroker woman, of no use to anyone! . . . Killing her was an atonement for forty sins. She was sucking the life out of poor people. Was that a crime? I am not thinking of it and I am not thinking of atoning for it, and why are you all rubbing it in on all sides? ?ÄòA crime! A crime!' Only now I see clearly the imbecility of my cowardice, now that I have decided to face this superfluous disgrace. It simply because I am contemptible and have nothing in me that I have decided to, perhaps too for my advantage, as that . . . Porfiry . . . suggested!" "Rodia, Rodia, what are you saying! You have shed blood!" cried Dunia in despair. "Which all men shed," he put in almost frantically, "which flows and has always flowed in streams, which is spilt like champagne, and for which men are crowned in the Capitol73 and are later called benefactors of mankind. Look into it more carefully and understand it! I too wanted to do good and would have done hundreds, thousands of good deeds to make up for that one piece of stupidity, not stupidity even, simply clumsiness, for the idea was by no means as stupid as it seems now that it has failed . . . (Everything seems stupid when it fails.) By that stupidity I only wanted to put myself into an independent position, to take the first step, to obtain means, and then everything would have been smoothed over by benefits immeasurable in comparison . . . But I . . . I couldn't carry out even the first step, because I am contemptible, that what the matter! And yet I won't look at it as you do. If I had succeeded I would have been crowned with glory, but now I'm trapped." "But that not so, not so! Rodia, what are you saying!" "Ah, it not picturesque, not esthetically attractive! I fail to understand why bombarding people by regular siege is more honorable. The fear of appearances is the first symptom of impotence. I've never, never recognized this more clearly than now, and I am further than ever from seeing that what I did was a crime. I've never, never been stronger and more convinced than now." The color had rushed into his pale exhausted face, but as he uttered his last explanation, he happened to meet Dunia eyes and he saw such anguish in them that he could not help being checked. He felt that he had any way made these two poor women miserable, that he was in any case the cause . . . "Dunia darling, if I am guilty forgive me (though I cannot be forgiven if I am guilty). Goodbye! We won't argue. It time, high time for me to go. Don't follow me, I have somewhere else to visit . . . But you go at once and sit with mother. I beg you! It my last request of you. Don't leave her at all; I left her in a state of anxiety that she is not fit to bear; she will die or go out of her mind. Be with her! Razumikhin will be with you. I've been talking to him . . . Don't cry about me: I'll try to be honest and manly all my life, even if I am a murderer. Perhaps I shall some day make a name for myself. I won't disgrace you, you'll see; I'll still show . . . Now goodbye for the present," he concluded hurriedly, noticing again a strange expression in Dunia eyes at his last words and promises. "Why are you crying? Don't cry, don't cry: we are not parting forever! Ah, yes! Wait a minute, I'd forgotten!" He went to the table, took up a thick dusty book, opened it and took from between the pages a little water-color portrait on ivory. It was the portrait of his landlady daughter, who had died of fever, that strange girl who had wanted to be a nun. For a minute he gazed at the delicate expressive face of his fianc?(c)e, kissed the portrait and gave it to Dunia. "I used to talk a great deal about it to her, only to her," he said thoughtfully. "To her heart I confided much of what has since been so hideously realized. Don't be uneasy," he returned to Dunia, "she was as much opposed to it as you, and I am glad that she is gone. The great point is that everything now is going to be different, is going to be broken in two," he cried, suddenly returning to his dejection. "Everything, everything, and am I prepared for it? Do I want it myself? They say it is necessary for me to suffer! What the object of these senseless sufferings? Shall I know any better what they are for, when I am crushed by hardships and idiocy, and weak as an old man after twenty years' penal servitude? And what shall I have to live for then? Why am I consenting to that life now? Oh, I knew I was contemptible when I stood looking at the Neva at daybreak today!" At last they both went out. It was hard for Dunia, but she loved him. She walked away, but after going fifty paces she turned round to look at him again. He was still in sight. At the corner he too turned and for the last time their eyes met; but noticing that she was looking at him, he motioned her away with impatience and even vexation, and turned the corner abruptly. "I am wicked, I see that," he thought to himself, feeling ashamed a moment later of his angry gesture to Dunia. "But why are they so fond of me if I don't deserve it? Oh, if only I were alone and no-one loved me and I too had never loved anyone! None of this would have happened. But, I wonder, shall I in those fifteen or twenty years grow so meek that I shall humble myself before people and whimper at every word that I am a criminal. Yes, that it, that it, that what they are sending me there for, that what they want. Look at them running to and fro about the streets, every one of them a scoundrel and a criminal at heart and, worse still, an idiot. But try to get me off and they'd be wild with righteous indignation. Oh, how I hate them all!" He start imagining the process which would accomplish it, that he could be humbled before all of them, indiscriminately humbled by conviction. And yet why not? It must be so. Would not twenty years of continual servitude crush him utterly? Water wears out a stone. And why, why should he live after that? Why should he go now when he knew that it would be so? It was the hundredth time perhaps that he had asked himself that question since the previous evening, but still he went. CHAPTER EIGHT WHEN HE ENTERED SONIA room, it was already getting dark. All day Sonia had been waiting for him in terrible anxiety. Dunia had been waiting with her. She had come to her that morning, remembering the words of Svidrigailov which Sonia knew. We will not describe the conversation and the tears of the two girls, and how friendly they became. Dunia gained one comfort at least from that interview that her brother would not be alone. He had gone to her, Sonia, first with his confession; he had gone to her for human companionship when he needed it; she would go with him wherever fate might send him. Dunia did not ask, but she knew it was true. She looked at Sonia almost with reverence and at first almost embarrassed her by it. Sonia was almost on the point of tears. She felt herself, on the contrary, hardly worthy to look at Dunia. Dunia gracious image when she had bowed to her so attentively and respectfully at their first meeting in Raskolnikov room had remained in her mind as one of the most beautiful visions of her life. Dunia at last became impatient and, leaving Sonia, went to her brother room to wait for him there; she kept thinking that he would come there first. When she had gone, Sonia began to be tortured by her dread that he would commit suicide, and Dunia feared it too. But they had spent the day trying to persuade each other that that could not happen, and both were less anxious while they were together. As soon as they parted, each thought of nothing else. Sonia remembered how Svidrigailov had said to her the day before that Raskolnikov had two alternatives Siberia or . . . Besides she knew his vanity, his pride and his lack of faith. "Is it possible that he has nothing but cowardice and fear of death to make him live?" she thought at last in despair. Meanwhile the sun was setting. Sonia was standing in dejection, looking intently out of the window, but from it she could see nothing but the unwhitewashed blank wall of the next house. At last, when she began to feel sure that he was dead he walked into the room. She gave a cry of joy, but looking carefully into his face she turned pale. "Yes," said Raskolnikov, smiling. "I have come for your cross, Sonia. It was you who told me to go to the crossroads; why is it you are frightened now it come to that?" Sonia gazed at him astonished. His tone seemed strange to her; a cold shiver ran over her, but in a moment she guessed that the tone and the words were a mask. He spoke to her looking away, as though to avoid meeting her eyes. "You see, Sonia, I've decided that it will be better so. There is one fact . . . But it a long story and there no need to discuss it. But do you know what angers me? It annoys me that all those stupid brutish faces will be gaping at me directly, pestering me with their stupid questions, which I shall have to answer they'll point their fingers at me . . . Pah! You know I am not going to Porfiry, I am sick of him. I'd rather go to my friend, the Explosive Lieutenant; how I shall surprise him, what a sensation I shall make! But I must be cooler; I've become too irritable recently. You know I was nearly shaking my fist at my sister just now because she turned to take a last look at me. It a brutal state to be in! Ah! What am I coming to! Well, where are the crosses?" He seemed hardly to know what he was doing. He could not stay still or concentrate on anything; his ideas seemed to gallop after one another; he talked incoherently; his hands trembled slightly. Without a word Sonia took out of the drawer two crosses, one of cypress wood and one of copper. She made the sign of the cross over herself and over him, and put the wooden cross on his neck. "It the symbol of my taking up the cross," he laughed. "As though I had not suffered much until now! The wooden cross, that is the peasant one; the copper one, that is Lizaveta you will wear it yourself, show me! So she had it on . . . at that moment? I remember two things like these too, a silver one and a little icon. I threw them back on the old woman neck. Those would be appropriate now, really, those are what I ought to put on now . . . But I'm talking nonsense and forgetting what matters; I'm forgetful somehow . . . You see I have come to warn you, Sonia, so you might know . . . that all that all I came for. But I thought I had more to say. You wanted me to go yourself. Well, now I'm going to prison and you'll have your wish. Well, what are you crying for? You too? Don't. Leave off! Oh, how I hate it all!" But his feeling was stirred; his heart ached, as he looked at her. "Why is she grieving too?" he thought to himself. "What am I to her? Why does she weep? Why is she looking after me, like my mother or Dunia? She'll be my nurse." "Cross yourself, say at least one prayer," Sonia begged in a timid broken voice. "Oh, certainly, as much as you like! And sincerely, Sonia, sincerely . . . " But he wanted to say something quite different. He crossed himself several times. Sonia took up her shawl and put it over her head. It was the green drap de dames shawl which Marmeladov had talked about, "the family shawl." Raskolnikov thought of that looking at it, but he did not ask. He began to feel himself that he was certainly forgetting things and was disgustingly agitated. He was frightened at this. He was suddenly struck too by the thought that Sonia intended to go with him. "What are you doing? Where are you going? Stay here, stay! I'll go alone," he cried in cowardly vexation, and almost resentful, he moved towards the door. "What the use of going in procession!" he muttered going out. Sonia remained standing in the middle of the room. He had not even said goodbye to her; he had forgotten her. A poignant and rebellious doubt surged in his heart. "Was it right, was it right, all this?" he thought again as he went down the stairs. "Couldn't he stop and retract it all . . . and not go?" But still he went. He felt suddenly once for all that he mustn't ask himself questions. As he turned into the street he remembered that he had not said goodbye to Sonia, that he had left her in the middle of the room in her green shawl, not daring to stir after he had shouted at her, and he stopped short for a moment. At the same instant, another thought dawned upon him, as though it had been lying in wait to strike him then. "Why, with what object did I go to her just now? I told her on business; on what business? I had no sort of business! To tell her I was going; but where was the need? Do I love her? No, no, I drove her away just now like a dog. Did I want her crosses? Oh, how low I've sunk! No, I wanted her tears, I wanted to see her terror, to see how her heart ached! I had to have something to cling to, something to delay me, some friendly face to see! And I dared to believe in myself, to dream of what I would do! I am a beggarly contemptible wretch, contemptible!" He walked along the canal bank; he had not much further to go. But on reaching the bridge he stopped and turning out of his way along it went to the Haymarket. He looked eagerly to right and left, gazed intently at every object and could not fix his attention on anything; everything slipped away. "In another week, another month I shall be driven in a prison van over this bridge, how shall I look at the canal then? I should like to remember this!" slipped into his mind. "Look at this sign! How shall I read those letters then? It written here ?ÄòCampany,' that a thing to remember, that letter a, and to look at it again in a month how shall I look at it then? What shall I be feeling and thinking then? . . . How trivial all of it must be, what I am worrying about now! Of course it must all be interesting . . . in its way . . . (Ha-ha-ha! What am I thinking about?) I am becoming a baby, I am showing off to myself; why am I ashamed? Foo, how people shove! That fat man a German, he must be who pushed against me, does he know who he pushed? There a peasant woman with a baby, begging. It curious that she thinks I am happier than she is. I might give her something, if only because it'd be so out of place. Here a five kopeck piece left in my pocket, where did I get it? Here, here . . . take it, my dear!" "God bless you," the beggar chanted in a tearful voice. He went into the Haymarket. It was distasteful, very distasteful to be in a crowd, but he walked just where he saw the most people. He would have given anything in the world to be alone; but he knew himself that he would not have remained alone for a moment. There was a man drunk and disorderly in the crowd; he kept trying to dance and falling down. There was a ring round him. Raskolnikov squeezed his way through the crowd, stared for some minutes at the drunken man and suddenly gave a short jerky laugh. A minute later he had forgotten him and did not see him, though he still stared. He moved away at last, not remembering where he was; but when he got into the middle of the square an emotion suddenly came over him, overwhelming him body and mind. He suddenly recalled Sonia words, "Go to the crossroads, bow down to the people, kiss the earth, for you have sinned against it too, and say aloud to the whole world, ?ÄòI am a murderer.' " He trembled, remembering that. And the hopeless misery and anxiety of all that time, especially of the last few hours, had weighed so heavily upon him that he clutched passionately at the chance of this new unmixed, complete sensation. It came over him like a fit; it was like a single spark kindled in his soul and spreading fire through him. Everything in him softened at once and the tears started into his eyes. He fell to the earth on the spot . . . He knelt down in the middle of the square, bowed down to the earth, and kissed that filthy earth with bliss and rapture. He got up and bowed down a second time. "He smashed," a youth near him observed. There was a roar of laughter. "He going to Jerusalem, brothers, and saying goodbye to his children and his country. He bowing down to the whole world and kissing the great city of St. Petersburg and its pavement," added a workman who was a little drunk. "Quite a young man, too!" observed a third. "And a gentleman," someone observed soberly. "There no knowing who a gentleman and who isn't nowadays." These exclamations and remarks checked Raskolnikov, and the words, "I am a murderer," which were perhaps on the point of dropping from his lips, died away. He bore these remarks quietly, however, and without looking round, he turned down a street leading to the police office. He had a glimpse of something on the way which did not surprise him; he had felt that it must be so. The second time he bowed down in the Haymarket, he saw Sonia standing fifty paces from him on the left. She was hiding from him behind one of the wooden shanties in the market-place. She had followed him then on his painful way! Raskolnikov at that moment felt and knew once for all that Sonia was with him forever and would follow him to the ends of the earth, wherever fate might take him. It wrung his heart . . . but he was just reaching the fatal place. He went into the yard fairly resolutely. He had to go up to the third floor. "I shall be some time going up," he thought. He felt as though the fateful moment was still far away, as though he had plenty of time left for consideration. Again the same rubbish, the same eggshells lying about on the spiral staircase, again the open doors of the apartments, again the same kitchens and the same fumes and stench coming from them. Raskolnikov had not been here since that day. His legs were numb and gave way under him, but still they moved forward. He stopped for a moment to take a breath, to collect himself, in order to go in like a man. "But why? What for?" he wondered, reflecting. "If I must drink the cup what difference does it make? The more revolting the better." He imagined for an instant the figure of the "explosive lieutenant," Ilia Petrovich. Was he actually going to him? Couldn't he go to someone else? To Nikodim Fomich? Couldn't he turn back and go straight to Nikodim Fomich rooms? At least then it would be done privately . . . No, no! To the "explosive lieutenant"! If he must drink it, drink it off at once. Turning cold and hardly conscious, he opened the door of the office. There were very few people in it this time just a house porter and a peasant. The doorkeeper did not even peep out from behind his screen. Raskolnikov walked into the next room. "Perhaps even now I don't have to speak," passed through his mind. Some sort of clerk who was not in a uniform was settling himself at a bureau to write. In a corner another clerk was seating himself. Zametov wasn't there, nor, of course, Nikodim Fomich. "No-one in?" Raskolnikov asked, addressing the person at the bureau. "Who do you want?" "A-ah! Not a sound was heard, not a sight was seen, but I sense the Russian . . . how does it go in the fairy tale . . . I've forgotten! At your service!" a familiar voice cried suddenly. Raskolnikov shuddered. The Explosive Lieutenant stood before him. He had just come in from the third room. "It the hand of fate," thought Raskolnikov. "Why he here?" "You've come to see us? What about?" cried Ilia Petrovich. He was obviously in an extremely good mood and perhaps a little exhilarated. "If it on business you are rather early.74 I'm only here by chance . . . however, I'll do what I can. I must admit, I . . . what is it, what is it? Excuse me . . . " "Raskolnikov." "Of course, Raskolnikov. You didn't imagine I'd forgotten? Don't think I am like that ... Rodion Ro Ro Rodionovich, that it, isn't it?" "Rodion Romanovich." "Yes, yes, of course, Rodion Romanovich! I was just getting at it. I made many inquiries about you. I assure you I've been genuinely grieved since that . . . since I behaved like that . . . it was explained to me afterwards that you were a literary man . . . and a learned one too ... and so to say the first steps . . . Mercy on us! What literary or scientific man does not begin his career with some originality of conduct! My wife and I have the greatest respect for literature, in my wife it a genuine passion! Literature and art! If only a man is a gentleman, all the rest can be gained by talents, learning, good sense, genius. As for a hat well, what does a hat matter? I can buy a hat as easily as I can a bun; but what under the hat, what the hat covers, I can't buy that! I was even meaning to come and apologize to you, but thought maybe you'd . . . But I am forgetting to ask you, is there anything you want really? I hear your family have come?" "Yes, my mother and sister." "I've even had the honor and happiness of meeting your sister a highly cultivated and charming person. I confess I was sorry I got so hot and bothered with you. There it is! But as for my looking suspiciously at your fainting fit that been cleared up splendidly! Bigotry and fanaticism! I understand your indignation. Perhaps you're changing your lodging because your family arrived?" "No, I only looked in . . . I came to ask . . . I thought that I might find Zametov here." "Oh, yes! Of course, you've made friends, I heard. Well, no, Zametov is not here. Yes, we've lost Zametov. He not been here since yesterday . . . he quarreled with everyone when he left . . . in the rudest way. He is a feather-headed youngster, that all; you might have expected something from him, but there, you know what they are, our brilliant young men. He wanted to go in for some examination, but it only to talk and boast about it, it'll go no further than that. Of course it a very different matter with you or Mr. Razumikhin there, your friend. Your career is an intellectual one and you won't be deterred by failure. For you, one may say, all the attractions of life nihil est75 you are an ascetic, a monk, a hermit! . . . A book, a pen behind your ear, a learned researcher that where your spirit soars! I am the same way myself . . . Have you read Livingstone Travels?"76 "No." "Oh, I have. There are a great many Nihilists about nowadays, you know, though it nothing to be surprised at. What sort of days are they? I ask you. But we thought . . . you are not a Nihilist of course? Answer me openly, openly!" "N-no . . . " "Believe me, you can speak as openly to me as you would to yourself! Official duty is one thing but . . . you are thinking I meant to say friendship is quite another? No, you're wrong! It not friendship, but the feeling of a man and a citizen, the feeling of humanity and of love for the Almighty. I may be an official, but I am always bound to feel myself a man and a citizen . . . You were asking about Zametov. Zametov will make a scandal in the French style in a house of bad reputation, over a glass of champagne . . . that all your Zametov is good for! While I'm perhaps, so to speak, burning with devotion and lofty feelings, and besides I have rank, consequence, a post! I am married and have children, I fulfill the duties of a man and a citizen, but who is he, may I ask? I appeal to you as a man enno bled by education . . . Then these midwives, too, have become extraordinarily numerous." Raskolnikov raised his eyebrows inquiringly. The words of Ilia Petrovich, who had obviously just been out for dinner, were for the most part a stream of empty sounds for him. But some of them he understood. He looked at him inquiringly, not knowing how it would end. "I mean those crop-headed wenches," the talkative Ilia Petrovich continued. "Midwives is my name for them. I think it a very satisfactory one, ha-ha! They go to the Academy, study anatomy. If I fall ill, should I send for a young lady to treat me? What do you say? Ha-ha!" Ilia Petrovich laughed, quite pleased with his own wit. "It a ravenous passion for education, but once you're educated, that enough. Why abuse it? Why insult honorable people, like that scoundrel Zametov does? Why did he insult me, I ask you? Look at these suicides, too, how common they are, you can't imagine! People spend their last kopeck and kill themselves, boys and girls and old people. Only this morning we heard about a gentleman who had just come to town. Nil Pavlich, I say, what was the name of that man who shot himself?" "Svidrigailov," someone answered from the other room with drowsy listlessness. Raskolnikov started. "Svidrigailov! Svidrigailov has shot himself!" he cried. "What, do you know Svidrigailov?" "Yes . . . I knew him . . . He hadn't been here long." "Yes, that true. He had lost his wife, was a man of reckless habits and all of a sudden shot himself, and in such a shocking way . . . He left in his notebook a few words; that he died in full possession of his faculties and that no-one is to blame for his death. He had money, they say. How did you come to know him?" "I . . . was acquainted . . . my sister was a governess in his family." "Bah-bah-bah! Then no doubt you can tell us something about him. You had no suspicion?" "I saw him yesterday . . . he . . . was drinking wine; I knew nothing." Raskolnikov felt as though something had fallen on him and was stifling him. "You've turned pale again. It so stuffy here . . . " "Yes, I must go," muttered Raskolnikov. "Excuse me for troubling you . . . " "Oh, not at all, as often as you like. It a pleasure to see you and I am glad to say so." Ilia Petrovich held out his hand. "I only wanted . . . I came to see Zametov." "I understand, I understand, and it a pleasure to see you." "I . . . am very glad . . . goodbye," Raskolnikov smiled. He went out; he reeled, he was overcome with dizziness and did not know what he was doing. He began going down the stairs, supporting himself with his right hand against the wall. He fancied that a porter pushed past him on his way upstairs to the police office, that a dog in the lower floor kept up a shrill barking and that a woman flung a rolling-pin at it and shouted. He went down and out into the yard. There, not far from the entrance, stood Sonia, pale and horror-stricken. She looked wildly at him. He stood still before her. There was a look of poignant agony, of despair, in her face. She clasped her hands. His lips were contorted into an ugly, meaningless smile. He stood still a minute, grinned and went back to the police office. Ilia Petrovich had sat down and was rummaging among some papers. Before him stood the same peasant who had pushed by on the stairs. "Hello! Back again! Have you left something behind? What the matter?" Raskolnikov, with white lips and staring eyes, came slowly nearer. He walked right up to the table, leaned his hand on it, tried to say something, but could not; only incoherent sounds were audible. "You are feeling ill, a chair! Here, sit down! Some water!" Raskolnikov dropped onto a chair, but he kept his eyes fixed on the face of Ilia Petrovich which expressed unpleasant surprise. Both looked at one another for a minute and waited. Water was brought. "It was I . . . " began Raskolnikov. "Drink some water." Raskolnikov refused the water with his hand, and softly and brokenly, but distinctly said: "It was I who killed the old pawnbroker woman and her sister Lizaveta with an axe and robbed them." Ilia Petrovich opened his mouth. People ran up on all sides. Raskolnikov repeated his statement. EPILOGUE CHAPTER ONE SIBERIA. ON THE BANKS of a broad solitary river stands a town, one of the administrative centers of Russia; in the town there is a fortress, and in the fortress there is a prison. In the prison the second-class77 convict Rodion Raskolnikov has been confined for nine months. Almost a year and a half has passed since his crime. There had been little difficulty about his trial. The criminal adhered exactly, firmly and clearly to his statement. He did not confuse or misrepresent the facts, or soften them in his own interest, or omit the smallest detail. He explained every incident of the murder, the secret of the pledge (the piece of wood with a strip of metal) which was found in the murdered woman hand. He described minutely how he had taken her keys, what they were like, as well as the chest and its contents; he explained the mystery of Lizaveta murder; described how Koch and, after him, the student knocked, and repeated all they had said to one another; how afterwards he had run downstairs and heard Nikolai and Dmitri shouting; how he had hidden in the empty apartment and afterwards gone home. He finished by indicating the stone in the yard off the Voznesensky Prospect under which the purse and the trinkets were found. The whole thing, in fact, was perfectly clear. The lawyers and the judges were very much struck, amongst other things, by the fact that he had hidden the trinkets and the purse under a stone, without making use of them, and that, what was more, he did not now remember what the trinkets were like, or even how many there were. The fact that he had never opened the purse and did not even know how much was in it seemed incredible. It turned out to hold three hundred and seventeen rubles and sixty kopecks. Because it had been lying under the stone for so long, some of the most valuable notes had suffered from the damp. They spent a long while trying to discover why the accused man should tell a lie about this when he had made a truthful and straight forward confession about everything else. Finally some of the lawyers more versed in psychology admitted that it was possible he had really not looked into the purse and so didn't know what was in it when he hid it under the stone. But they immediately deduced that the crime could only have been committed through temporary mental derangement, through homicidal mania, without any purpose or pursuit of gain. This fell in with the most recent fashionable theory of temporary insanity, so often applied nowadays in criminal cases. Moreover Raskolnikov hypochondriac condition was proved by many witnesses, by Dr. Zossimov, his former fellow students, his landlady and her servant. All this pointed strongly to the conclusion that Raskolnikov was not quite like an ordinary murderer and robber, but that there was another element in the case. To the intense annoyance of those who maintained this opinion, the criminal scarcely attempted to defend himself. To the decisive question as to what motive impelled him to the murder and the robbery, he answered very clearly with the coarsest frankness that the cause was his miserable position, his poverty and helplessness, and his desire to provide for his first steps in life by the help of the three thousand rubles he had reckoned on finding. He had been led to the murder through his shallow and cowardly nature, exasperated moreover by poverty and failure. To the question what led him to confess, he answered that it was his heartfelt repentance. All this was almost coarse . . . The sentence however was more merciful than could have been expected, perhaps partly because the criminal had not tried to justify himself, but had rather shown a desire to exaggerate his guilt. All the strange and peculiar circumstances of the crime were taken into consideration. There could be no doubt of the abnormal and poverty-stricken condition of the criminal at the time. The fact that he had made no use of what he had stolen was put down partly to the effect of remorse, partly to his abnormal mental state at the time of the crime. Incidentally, the murder of Lizaveta served in fact to confirm the last hypothesis: a man commits two murders and forgets that the door is open! Finally, the confession, at the very moment when the case was hopelessly muddled by the false evidence given by Nikolai through melancholy and fanaticism, and when, moreover, there were no proofs against the real criminal, no suspicions even (Porfiry Petrovich fully kept his word) all this did much to soften the sentence. Other circumstances, too, in the prisoner favor came out quite unexpectedly. Razumikhin somehow discovered and proved that while Raskolnikov was at the university he had helped a poor consumptive fellow student and had spent his last penny on supporting him for six months, and when this student died, leaving a decrepit old father whom he had maintained almost from his thirteenth year, Raskolnikov had got the old man into a hospital and paid for his funeral when he died. Raskolnikov landlady bore witness, too, that when they had lived in another house at Five Corners, Raskolnikov had rescued two little children from a house on fire and was burnt in doing so. This was investigated and fairly well confirmed by many witnesses. These facts made an impression in his favor. And in the end the criminal was in consideration of extenuating circumstances condemned to penal servitude in the second class for a term of eight years only. At the very beginning of the trial Raskolnikov mother fell ill. Dunia and Razumikhin found it possible to get her out of Petersburg during the trial. Razumikhin chose a town on the railway not far from Petersburg, so as to be able to follow every step of the trial and at the same time to see Avdotia Romanovna as often as possible. Pulcheria Alexandrovna illness was a strange nervous one and was accompanied by a partial derangement of her intellect. When Dunia returned from her last interview with her brother, she had found her mother already ill, in feverish delirium. That evening Razumikhin and she agreed what answers they must make to her mother questions about Raskolnikov and made up a complete story for her mother benefit that he had to go away to a distant part of Russia on a business commission, which would eventually bring him money and renown. But they were struck by the fact that Pulcheria Alexandrovna never asked them anything on the subject, neither then nor thereafter. On the contrary, she had her own version of her son sudden departure; she told them with tears how he had come to say goodbye to her, hinting that she alone knew many mysterious and important facts, and that Rodia had many very powerful enemies, so that it was necessary for him to be in hiding. As for his future career, she had no doubt that it would be brilliant when certain sinister influences could be removed. She assured Razumikhin that her son would one day be a great statesman, that his article and brilliant literary talent proved it. She read this article continually, she even read it aloud, almost took it to bed with her, but scarcely asked where Rodia was, though the subject was obviously avoided by the others, which might have been enough to awaken her suspicions. They began to be frightened at last at Pulcheria Alexandrovna strange silence on certain subjects. She did not, for instance, complain that she never received any letters from him, though in previous years she had lived solely on the hope of letters from her beloved Rodia. This was a cause of great uneasiness to Dunia; the idea occurred to her that her mother suspected that there was something terrible in her son fate and was afraid to ask, for fear of hearing something still more awful. In any case, Dunia saw clearly that her mother was not in full possession of her faculties. Once or twice, however, Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave such a turn to the conversation that it was impossible to answer her without mentioning where Rodia was, and on receiving unsatisfactory and suspicious answers she immediately became gloomy and silent. Such moods would last for a long time. Dunia saw at last that it was hard to deceive her and came to the conclusion that it was better to be absolutely silent on certain points; but it became more and more evident that the poor mother suspected something terrible. Dunia remembered her brother telling her that her mother had overheard her talking in her sleep on the night after her interview with Svidrigailov and before the fatal day of the confession: had she not understood something from that? Sometimes days and even weeks of gloomy silence and tears would be followed by a period of hysterical animation, and the invalid would begin to talk almost incessantly of her son, of her hopes of his future . . . Her ideas were sometimes very strange. They humored her, pretended to agree with her (she saw perhaps that they were pretending), but she still went on talking. Five months after Raskolnikov confession, he was sentenced. Razumikhin and Sonia saw him in prison as often as possible. At last the moment of separation came. Dunia swore to her brother that the separation should not be for ever, Razumikhin did the same. Razumikhin, in his youthful ardor, had firmly resolved to lay the foundations at least of a secure livelihood during the next three or four years, save up a certain sum and emigrate to Siberia, a country rich in every natural resource and in need of workers, active men and capital. There they would settle in the town where Rodia would be living and begin a new life together. They all wept when they parted. Raskolnikov had been very dreamy for a few days before. He asked a great deal about his mother and was constantly anxious about her. He worried so much about her that it alarmed Dunia. When he heard about his mother illness he became very gloomy. With Sonia he was particularly reserved all the time. With the help of the money left to her by Svidrigailov, Sonia had long ago made her preparations to follow the party of convicts in which he was dispatched to Siberia. Not a word passed between Raskolnikov and her on the subject, but both knew that was how it would be. At their final parting he smiled strangely at his sister and Razumikhin fervent anticipations of their happy future together when he would come out of prison. He predicted that their mother illness would soon end fatally. At last, Sonia and he set off. Two months later Dunia was married to Razumikhin. It was a quiet and sorrowful wedding; Porfiry Petrovich and Zossimov, however, were invited. During this whole period Razumikhin wore an air of resolute determination. Dunia implicitly believed he would carry out his plans and indeed she could not but believe in him. He displayed a rare strength of will. Among other things he began attending university lectures again in order to take his degree. They were continually making plans for the future; both counted on settling in Siberia within five years at least. Until then they rested their hopes on Sonia. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was delighted to give her blessing to Dunia marriage with Razumikhin; but after the marriage she became even more melancholy and anxious. To give her pleasure Razumikhin told her how Raskolnikov had looked after the poor student and his decrepit father and how a year ago he had been burnt and injured in rescuing two little children from a fire. These two pieces of news excited Pulcheria Alexandrovna disordered imagination almost to ecstasy. She talked about them continually, even entering into conversation with strangers in the street, though Dunia always accompanied her. In public conveyances and stores, wherever she could capture a listener, she would start talking about her son, his article, how he had helped the student, how he had been burnt in the fire, and so on. Dunia did not know how to restrain her. Apart from the danger of her morbid excitement, there was the risk of someone recalling Raskolnikov name and speaking of the recent trial. Pulcheria Alexandrovna found out the address of the mother of the two children her son had saved and insisted on going to see her. At last her restlessness reached an extreme point. She would sometimes begin to cry suddenly and was often ill and feverishly delirious. One morning she declared that by her reckoning Rodia should soon be home, that she remembered when he said goodbye to her he said that they must expect him back in nine months. She began to prepare for his arrival, began to do up her room for him, to clean the furniture, to wash and put up new hangings and so on. Dunia was anxious, but said nothing and helped her to arrange the room. After a fatiguing day spent in continual fantasies, in joyful daydreams and tears, Pulcheria Alexandrovna was taken ill in the night and by morning she was feverish and delirious. It was brain fever. She died within a fortnight. In her delirium she dropped hints which showed that she knew a great deal more about her son terrible fate than they had supposed. For a long time Raskolnikov did not know of his mother death, though a regular correspondence had been maintained from the time he reached Siberia. It was carried on by means of Sonia, who wrote every month to the Razumikhins and received replies with unfailing regularity. At first they found Sonia letters dry and unsatisfactory, but later on they came to the conclusion that the letters could not be better, since from these letters they received a complete picture of their unfortunate brother life. Sonia letters were full of the most matter of fact detail, the simplest and clearest description of all Raskolnikov surroundings as a convict. There was no word of her own hopes, no predictions for the future, no description of her feelings. Instead of any attempt to interpret his state of mind and inner life, she gave the simple facts that is, his own words, an exact account of his health, what he asked for at their interviews, what commission he gave her and so on. All these facts she gave with extraordinary minuteness. The picture of their unhappy brother stood out at last with great clarity and precision. There could be no mistake, because nothing was given but facts. But Dunia and her husband could derive little comfort from the news, especially at first. Sonia wrote that he was constantly sullen and unready to talk, that he scarcely seemed interested in the news she gave him from their letters, that he sometimes asked after his mother and that when, seeing that he had guessed the truth, she told him at last of her death, she was surprised to find that he did not seem greatly affected by it, not externally at any rate. She told them that, although he seemed so wrapped up in himself and, as it were, shut himself off from everyone, he took a very direct and simple view of his new life; that he understood his position, expected nothing better for the time being, had no ill-founded hopes (as is so common in his position) and scarcely seemed surprised at anything in his surroundings, which were so unlike anything he had known before. She wrote that his health was satisfactory; he did his work without shirking or seeking to do more; he was almost indifferent about food, but, except on Sundays and holidays, the food was so bad that at last he had been glad to accept some money to have his own tea every day. He begged her not to trouble about anything else, declaring that all the fuss only annoyed him. Sonia wrote further that in prison he shared the same room with the rest, that she had not seen the inside of their barracks, but concluded that they were crowded, miserable and unhealthy; that he slept on a plank bed with a rug under him and was unwilling to make any other arrangement. But that he lived so poorly and roughly, not from any intention or plan, but simply from inattention and indifference. Sonia wrote simply that he had at first shown no interest in her visits, had almost been irritated with her for coming; he had even been rude to her and unwilling to talk. But in the end these visits had become a habit and almost a necessity for him, and he was positively distressed when she was ill for several days and could not come to see him. She used to meet him on holidays at the prison gates or in the guard-room, to which he would be brought for a few minutes to be with her. On working days she would go to see him at work either at the workshops or at the brick kilns, or at the sheds on the banks of the Irtysh.78 About herself, Sonia wrote that she had succeeded in making some acquaintances in the town, that she sewed and, as there was scarcely a dressmaker in the vicinity, she was looked upon as an indispensable person in many houses. But she did not mention that the authorities were, through her, interested in Raskolnikov; that his task was lightened and so on. At last the news came (Dunia had indeed noticed signs of alarm and uneasiness in the preceding letters) that he had remained aloof from everyone, that his fellow prisoners did not like him, that he kept silent for days at a time and was becoming very pale. In the last letter Sonia wrote that he had been taken very seriously ill and was in the convict ward of the hospital. CHAPTER TWO HE WAS ILL FOR a long time. But it was not the horrors of prison life, not the hard labor, the bad food, the shaven head, or the patched clothes that crushed him. What did he care for all those trials and hardships! He was even glad of the hard work. Physically exhausted, he could at least count on a few hours of quiet sleep. And what did the food matter to him, the thin cabbage soup with beetles floating in it? In the past as a student he had often not had even that. His clothes were warm and suited to his way of life. He did not even feel the chains. Was he ashamed of his shaven head and his prison coat? In whose presence? In Sonia ? Sonia was afraid of him, how could he feel ashamed in her presence? And yet he was even ashamed when he came to see Sonia, because of which he tortured her with his rough, contemptuous manner. But it was not his shaven head and his chains he was ashamed of: his pride had been stung to the quick. It was wounded pride that made him ill. Oh, how happy he would have been if he could have blamed himself! He could have endured anything then, even shame and disgrace. But he judged himself severely, and his exasperated conscience found no particularly terrible fault in his past, except a simple blunder which might happen to anyone. He was ashamed just because he, Raskolnikov, had so hopelessly, stupidly come to grief through some decree of blind fate, and must humble himself and submit to "the idiocy" of a sentence in order somehow to find peace. Vague and aimless anxiety in the present, and in the future a continual sacrifice leading to nothing that was all that lay before him. And what comfort was it to him that at the end of eight years he would be only thirty-two and able to begin a new life! What did he have to live for? What did he have to look forward to? Why should he strive? To live in order to exist? He had been ready a thousand times before to give up existence for the sake of an idea, for a hope, even for a whim. Mere existence had always been too little for him; he had always wanted more. Perhaps it was just because of the strength of his desires that he had considered himself a man to whom more was permissible than to others. And if only fate would have sent him repentance burning repentance that would have torn his heart and robbed him of sleep, that repentance, the awful agony of which brings visions of hanging or drowning! Oh, he would have been glad of it! Tears and agonies would at least have been life. But he did not repent of his crime. At least he might have found relief in raging at his stupidity, as he had raged at the grotesque blunders that had brought him to prison. But now in prison, in freedom, he thought over and criticized all his actions again and by no means found them as blundering and as grotesque as they had seemed at the fatal time. "In what way," he asked himself, "was my theory more stupid than others that have swarmed and clashed from the beginning of the world? You only have to look at the thing entirely independently, broadly, and uninfluenced by commonplace ideas, and my idea will by no means seem so . . . strange. Oh, skeptics and halfpenny philosophers, why do you halt halfway!" "Why does my action strike them as so horrible?" he said to himself. "Is it because it was a crime? What is meant by crime? My conscience is at rest. Of course, it was a legal crime, of course, the letter of the law was broken and blood was shed. Well, punish me for the letter of the law . . . and that enough. Of course, in that case many of the benefactors of mankind who snatched power for themselves instead of inheriting it ought to have been punished at their first steps. But those men succeeded and so they were right, and I didn't, and so I had no right to have taken that step." It was only in that that he recognized his criminality, only in the fact that he had been unsuccessful and had confessed it. He suffered from another question: why had he not killed himself ? Why had he stood looking at the river and preferred to confess? Was the desire to live so strong and was it so hard to overcome it? Had not Svidrigailov overcome it, although he was afraid of death? In his misery he asked himself this question and could not understand that, at the very time he had been standing looking into the river, he had perhaps been dimly conscious of the fundamental falsity in himself and his convictions. He didn't understand that that consciousness might be the promise of a future crisis, of a new view of life and of his future resurrection. He preferred to attribute it to the dead weight of instinct which he could not step over, again through weakness and meanness. He looked at his fellow prisoners and was amazed to see how they all loved life and prized it. It seemed to him that they loved and valued life more in prison than in freedom. What terrible agonies and privations some of them, the tramps for instance, had endured! Could they care so much for a ray of sunshine, for the primeval forest, the cold spring hidden away in some unseen spot, which the tramp had marked three years before, and longed to see again, as he might to see his sweetheart, dreaming of the green grass round it and the bird singing in the bush? As he went on he saw even more inexplicable examples. In prison, of course, there was a great deal he did not see and did not want to see; he lived as it were with downcast eyes. It was loathsome and unbearable for him to look. But in the end there was much that surprised him and he began, as it were involuntarily, to notice much that he had not suspected before. What surprised him most of all was the terrible, impossible gulf that lay between him and all the rest of them. They seemed to be a different species, and he looked at them and they at him with distrust and hostility. He recognized and understood the reasons for his isolation, but he would never have admitted until then that those reasons were so deep and strong. There were some Polish exiles, political prisoners, among them. They simply looked down upon everyone else and treated them like ignorant fools; but Raskolnikov could not look upon them like that. He saw that these ignorant men were in many respects far wiser than the Poles. There were some Russians who were just as contemptuous, a former officer and two seminarians.79 Raskolnikov saw their mistake as clearly. He was disliked and avoided by everyone; they finally even began to hate him why, he could not tell. Men who had been guilty of far greater offenses despised and laughed at his crime. "You're a gentleman," they used to say. "You shouldn't hack about with an axe; that not a gentleman work." The second week in Lent, his turn came to take the sacrament with his gang. He went to church and prayed with the others. A quarrel broke out one day, he did not know how. Everyone fell on him at once in a fury. "You're an infidel! You don't believe in God," they shouted. "You ought to be killed." He had never talked to them about God or his belief, but they wanted to kill him because he was an infidel. He said nothing. One of the prisoners rushed at him in an absolute frenzy. Raskolnikov awaited him calmly and silently; his eyebrows did not quiver, his face did not flinch. The guard succeeded in intervening between him and his assailant, or there would have been bloodshed. There was another question he could not resolve: why were they all so fond of Sonia? She did not try to win their favor; she rarely met them, only occasionally coming to see him at work, and even then only for a moment. And yet everybody knew her, they knew that she had come out to follow him, knew how and where she lived. She never gave them money, did them no particular service. Only once, at Christmas, did she send them all presents of pies and rolls. But by degrees closer relations sprang up between them and Sonia. She would write and post letters for them to their relations. Relations of the prisoners who visited the town, at their instructions, left presents and money for them with Sonia. Their wives and sweethearts knew her and used to visit her. And when she visited Raskolnikov at work, or met a party of the prisoners on the road, they all took off their hats to her. "Little mother Sofia Semionovna, you are our dear, good little mother," coarse branded criminals said to that frail little creature. She would smile and bow to them and everyone was delighted when she smiled. They even admired her gait and turned round to watch her walking; they admired her too for being so little, and, in fact, did not know what to admire her most for. They even came to her for help with their illnesses. He was in the hospital from the middle of Lent until after Easter. When he was better, he remembered the dreams he had had while he was feverish and delirious. He dreamt that the whole world was condemned to a terrible strange new plague that had come to Europe from the depths of Asia. Everyone was to be destroyed except a few chosen ones. Some sort of new microbe was attacking people bodies, but these microbes were endowed with intelligence and will. Men attacked by them became instantly furious and mad. But never had men considered themselves so intellectual and so completely in possession of the truth as these sufferers, never had they considered their decisions, their scientific conclusions, their moral convictions so infallible. Whole villages, whole towns and peoples were driven mad by the infection. Everyone was excited and did not understand one another. Each thought that he alone had the truth and was wretched looking at the others, beat himself on the breast, wept, and wrung his hands. They did not know how to judge and could not agree what to consider evil and what good; they did not know who to blame, who to justify. Men killed each other in a sort of senseless spite. They gathered together in armies against one another, but even on the march the armies would begin attacking each other, the ranks would be broken and the soldiers would fall on each other, stabbing and cutting, biting and devouring each other. The alarm bells kept ringing all day long in the towns; men rushed together, but why they were summoned and who was summoning them no-one knew. The most ordinary trades were abandoned, because everyone proposed their own ideas and their own improvements, and they could not agree. The land too was abandoned. Men met in groups, agreed on something, swore to keep together, but at once began on something quite different from what they had proposed. They accused one another, fought and killed each other. There were conflagrations and famine. All men and all things were involved in destruction. The plague spread and moved further and further. Only a few men could be saved in the whole world. They were a pure chosen people, destined to found a new race and a new life, to renew and purify the earth, but no-one had seen these men, no-one had heard their words and their voices. Raskolnikov was worried that this senseless dream haunted his memory so miserably, that the impression of this feverish delirium persisted so long. The second week after Easter had come. There were warm bright spring days; in the prison ward the grating windows under which the sentinel paced were opened. Sonia had only been able to visit him twice during his illness; each time she had to obtain permission, and it was difficult. But she often used to come to the hospital yard, especially in the evening, sometimes only to stand a minute and look up at the windows of the ward. One evening, when he was almost well again, Raskolnikov fell asleep. When he awoke he happened to go to the window, and at once saw Sonia in the distance at the hospital gate. She seemed to be waiting for someone. Something almost stabbed his heart at that moment. He shuddered and moved away from the window. The next day Sonia did not come, nor the day after; he noticed that he was expecting her uneasily. At last he was discharged. On reaching the prison he learnt from the convicts that Sofia Semionovna was lying ill at home and was unable to go out. He was very uneasy and sent a message to inquire after her; he soon learnt that her illness was not dangerous. Hearing that he was anxious about her, Sonia sent him a penciled note, telling him that she was much better, that she had a slight cold and that she would come soon, very soon and see him at work. His heart throbbed painfully as he read it. Again it was a warm bright day. Early in the morning, at six o'clock, he went off to work on the river bank, where they used to pound alabaster and had a kiln for baking it in a shed. There were only three of them who were sent. One of the convicts went with the guard to the fortress to fetch a tool; the other began getting the wood ready and laying it in the kiln. Raskolnikov came out of the shed on to the river bank, sat down on a heap of logs by the shed and began gazing at the wide deserted river. From the high bank a broad landscape opened before him, the sound of singing floated faintly audible from the other bank. In the vast steppe, bathed in sunshine, he could just see, like black specks, the nomads' tents. There there was freedom, there other men were living, utterly unlike those here; there time itself seemed to stand still, as though the age of Abraham and his flocks had not passed. Raskolnikov sat gazing, his thoughts passed into daydreams, into contemplation; he thought of nothing, but a vague restlessness excited and troubled him. Suddenly he found Sonia beside him; she had come up noiselessly and sat down at his side. It was still quite early; the morning chill was still sharp. She wore her threadbare old wrap and the green shawl; her face still showed signs of illness, and it was thinner and paler. She gave him a joyful, welcoming smile, but held out her hand with her usual timidity. She was always timid about holding out her hand to him and sometimes did not offer it at all, as though she were afraid he would repel it. He always took her hand as if with repugnance, always seemed irritated to meet her and was sometimes obstinately silent throughout her visit. Sometimes she trembled before him and went away deeply upset. But now their hands did not part. He stole a rapid glance at her and dropped his eyes on the ground without speaking. They were alone, no-one had seen them. The guard had turned away for the time being. How it happened he did not know. But all at once something seemed to seize him and fling him at her feet. He wept and threw his arms round her knees. At first instant she was terribly frightened and she turned pale. She jumped up and looked at him trembling. But at the same moment she understood, and a light of infinite happiness came into her eyes. She knew and had no doubt that he loved her above everything else and that at last the moment had come . . . They wanted to speak, but could not; tears stood in their eyes. They were both pale and thin; but those sick pale faces were bright with the dawn of a new future, of a full resurrection into a new life. They were renewed by love; the heart of each held infinite sources of life for the heart of the other. They resolved to wait and be patient. They had another seven years to wait, and what terrible suffering and what infinite happiness before them! But he had risen again and he knew it and felt it in his whole being, while she she lived through him alone. On the evening of the same day, when the barracks were locked, Raskolnikov lay on his plank bed and thought of her. He had even imagined that day that all the convicts who had been his enemies looked at him differently; he had even started talking to them and they answered him in a friendly way. He remembered that now, and thought it was bound to be so. Wasn't everything now bound to be changed? He thought of her. He remembered how continually he had tormented her and wounded her heart. He remembered her pale, thin little face. But these recollections scarcely troubled him now; he knew with what infinite love he would now repay all her sufferings. And what were all the agonies of the past! Everything, even his crime, his sentence and imprisonment, seemed to him now in the first rush of feeling an external, strange fact with which he had no concern. But he could not think of anything for long that evening, and he could not have analyzed anything consciously; he was simply feeling. Life had stepped into the place of theory and something quite different would work itself out in his mind. Under his pillow lay the New Testament. He took it up mechanically. The book belonged to Sonia; it was the one from which she had read the raising of Lazarus to him. At first he was afraid that she would worry him about religion, would talk about the gospel and pester him with books. But to his great surprise she had not once approached the subject and had not even offered him the Testament. He had asked her for it himself not long before his illness and she brought him the book without a word. Until now he had not opened it. He did not open it now, but one thought passed through his mind: "Can her convictions not be mine now? Her feelings, her aspirations at least . . . " She too had been greatly agitated that day, and at night she was taken ill again. But she was so happy and so unexpectedly happy that she was almost frightened of her happiness. Seven years, only seven years! At the beginning of their happiness at some moments they were both ready to look on those seven years as though they were seven days. He did not know that the new life would not be given him for nothing, that he would have to pay dearly for it, that it would cost him great striving, great suffering. But that is the beginning of a new story the story of the gradual renewal of a man, the story of his gradual regeneration, of his transition from one world into another, of his initiation into a new, unknown life. That might be the subject of a new story, but our present story is over.- THE END PART I Underground* *The author of the diary and the diary itself are, of course, imaginary. Nevertheless it is clear that such persons as the writer of these notes not only may, but positively must, exist in our society, when we consider the circumstances in the midst of which our society is formed. I have tried to expose to the view of the public more distinctly than is commonly done, one of the characters of the recent past. He is one of the representatives of a generation still living. In this fragment, entitled "Underground," this person introduces himself and his views, and, as it were, tries to explain the causes owing to which he has made his appearance and was bound to make his appearance in our midst. In the second fragment there are added the actual notes of this person concerning certain events in his life. --AUTHOR'S NOTE. I I am a sick man. ... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don't consult a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. That you probably will not understand. Well, I understand it, though. Of course, I can't explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying in this case by my spite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot "pay out" the doctors by not consulting them; I know better than anyone that by all this I am only injuring myself and no one else. But still, if I don't consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver is bad, well--let it get worse! I have been going on like that for a long time--twenty years. Now I am forty. I used to be in the government service, but am no longer. I was a spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so. I did not take bribes, you see, so I was bound to find a recompense in that, at least. (A poor jest, but I will not scratch it out. I wrote it thinking it would sound very witty; but now that I have seen myself that I only wanted to show off in a despicable way, I will not scratch it out on purpose!) When petitioners used to come for information to the table at which I sat, I used to grind my teeth at them, and felt intense enjoyment when I succeeded in making anybody unhappy. I almost did succeed. For the most part they were all timid people--of course, they were petitioners. But of the uppish ones there was one officer in particular I could not endure. He simply would not be humble, and clanked his sword in a disgusting way. I carried on a feud with him for eighteen months over that sword. At last I got the better of him. He left off clanking it. That happened in my youth, though. But do you know, gentlemen, what was the chief point about my spite? Why, the whole point, the real sting of it lay in the fact that continually, even in the moment of the acutest spleen, I was inwardly conscious with shame that I was not only not a spiteful but not even an embittered man, that I was simply scaring sparrows at random and amusing myself by it. I might foam at the mouth, but bring me a doll to play with, give me a cup of tea with sugar in it, and maybe I should be appeased. I might even be genuinely touched, though probably I should grind my teeth at myself afterwards and lie awake at night with shame for months after. That was my way. I was lying when I said just now that I was a spiteful official. I was lying from spite. I was simply amusing myself with the petitioners and with the officer, and in reality I never could become spiteful. I was conscious every moment in myself of many, very many elements absolutely opposite to that. I felt them positively swarming in me, these opposite elements. I knew that they had been swarming in me all my life and craving some outlet from me, but I would not let them, would not let them, purposely would not let them come out. They tormented me till I was ashamed: they drove me to convulsions and--sickened me, at last, how they sickened me! Now, are not you fancying, gentlemen, that I am expressing remorse for something now, that I am asking your forgiveness for something? I am sure you are fancying that ... However, I assure you I do not care if you are. ... It was not only that I could not become spiteful, I did not know how to become anything; neither spiteful nor kind, neither a rascal nor an honest man, neither a hero nor an insect. Now, I am living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything. Yes, a man in the nineteenth century must and morally ought to be pre-eminently a characterless creature; a man of character, an active man is pre-eminently a limited creature. That is my conviction of forty years. I am forty years old now, and you know forty years is a whole lifetime; you know it is extreme old age. To live longer than forty years is bad manners, is vulgar, immoral. Who does live beyond forty? Answer that, sincerely and honestly I will tell you who do: fools and worthless fellows. I tell all old men that to their face, all these venerable old men, all these silver-haired and reverend seniors! I tell the whole world that to its face! I have a right to say so, for I shall go on living to sixty myself. To seventy! To eighty! ... Stay, let me take breath ... You imagine no doubt, gentlemen, that I want to amuse you. You are mistaken in that, too. I am by no means such a mirthful person as you imagine, or as you may imagine; however, irritated by all this babble (and I feel that you are irritated) you think fit to ask me who I am--then my answer is, I am a collegiate assessor. I was in the service that I might have something to eat (and solely for that reason), and when last year a distant relation left me six thousand roubles in his will I immediately retired from the service and settled down in my corner. I used to live in this corner before, but now I have settled down in it. My room is a wretched, horrid one in the outskirts of the town. My servant is an old country- woman, ill-natured from stupidity, and, moreover, there is always a nasty smell about her. I am told that the Petersburg climate is bad for me, and that with my small means it is very expensive to live in Petersburg. I know all that better than all these sage and experienced counsellors and monitors. ... But I am remaining in Petersburg; I am not going away from Petersburg! I am not going away because ... ech! Why, it is absolutely no matter whether I am going away or not going away. But what can a decent man speak of with most pleasure? Answer: Of himself. Well, so I will talk about myself. II I want now to tell you, gentlemen, whether you care to hear it or not, why I could not even become an insect. I tell you solemnly, that I have many times tried to become an insect. But I was not equal even to that. I swear, gentlemen, that to be too conscious is an illness--a real thorough-going illness. For man's everyday needs, it would have been quite enough to have the ordinary human consciousness, that is, half or a quarter of the amount which falls to the lot of a cultivated man of our unhappy nineteenth century, especially one who has the fatal ill-luck to inhabit Petersburg, the most theoretical and intentional town on the whole terrestrial globe. (There are intentional and unintentional towns.) It would have been quite enough, for instance, to have the consciousness by which all so-called direct persons and men of action live. I bet you think I am writing all this from affectation, to be witty at the expense of men of action; and what is more, that from ill-bred affectation, I am clanking a sword like my officer. But, gentlemen, whoever can pride himself on his diseases and even swagger over them? Though, after all, everyone does do that; people do pride themselves on their diseases, and I do, may be, more than anyone. We will not dispute it; my contention was absurd. But yet I am firmly persuaded that a great deal of consciousness, every sort of consciousness, in fact, is a disease. I stick to that. Let us leave that, too, for a minute. Tell me this: why does it happen that at the very, yes, at the very moments when I am most capable of feeling every refinement of all that is "sublime and beautiful," as they used to say at one time, it would, as though of design, happen to me not only to feel but to do such ugly things, such that ... Well, in short, actions that all, perhaps, commit; but which, as though purposely, occurred to me at the very time when I was most conscious that they ought not to be committed. The more conscious I was of goodness and of all that was "sublime and beautiful," the more deeply I sank into my mire and the more ready I was to sink in it altogether. But the chief point was that all this was, as it were, not accidental in me, but as though it were bound to be so. It was as though it were my most normal condition, and not in the least disease or depravity, so that at last all desire in me to struggle against this depravity passed. It ended by my almost believing (perhaps actually believing) that this was perhaps my normal condition. But at first, in the beginning, what agonies I endured in that struggle! I did not believe it was the same with other people, and all my life I hid this fact about myself as a secret. I was ashamed (even now, perhaps, I am ashamed): I got to the point of feeling a sort of secret abnormal, despicable enjoyment in returning home to my corner on some disgusting Petersburg night, acutely conscious that that day I had committed a loathsome action again, that what was done could never be undone, and secretly, inwardly gnawing, gnawing at myself for it, tearing and consuming myself till at last the bitterness turned into a sort of shameful accursed sweetness, and at last--into positive real enjoyment! Yes, into enjoyment, into enjoyment! I insist upon that. I have spoken of this because I keep wanting to know for a fact whether other people feel such enjoyment? I will explain; the enjoyment was just from the too intense consciousness of one's own degradation; it was from feeling oneself that one had reached the last barrier, that it was horrible, but that it could not be otherwise; that there was no escape for you; that you never could become a different man; that even if time and faith were still left you to change into something different you would most likely not wish to change; or if you did wish to, even then you would do nothing; because perhaps in reality there was nothing for you to change into. And the worst of it was, and the root of it all, that it was all in accord with the normal fundamental laws of over-acute consciousness, and with the inertia that was the direct result of those laws, and that consequently one was not only unable to change but could do absolutely nothing. Thus it would follow, as the result of acute consciousness, that one is not to blame in being a scoundrel; as though that were any consolation to the scoundrel once he has come to realise that he actually is a scoundrel. But enough. ... Ech, I have talked a lot of nonsense, but what have I explained? How is enjoyment in this to be explained? But I will explain it. I will get to the bottom of it! That is why I have taken up my pen. ... I, for instance, have a great deal of AMOUR PROPRE. I am as suspicious and prone to take offence as a humpback or a dwarf. But upon my word I sometimes have had moments when if I had happened to be slapped in the face I should, perhaps, have been positively glad of it. I say, in earnest, that I should probably have been able to discover even in that a peculiar sort of enjoyment--the enjoyment, of course, of despair; but in despair there are the most intense enjoyments, especially when one is very acutely conscious of the hopelessness of one's position. And when one is slapped in the face--why then the consciousness of being rubbed into a pulp would positively overwhelm one. The worst of it is, look at it which way one will, it still turns out that I was always the most to blame in everything. And what is most humiliating of all, to blame for no fault of my own but, so to say, through the laws of nature. In the first place, to blame because I am cleverer than any of the people surrounding me. (I have always considered myself cleverer than any of the people surrounding me, and sometimes, would you believe it, have been positively ashamed of it. At any rate, I have all my life, as it were, turned my eyes away and never could look people straight in the face.) To blame, finally, because even if I had had magnanimity, I should only have had more suffering from the sense of its uselessness. I should certainly have never been able to do anything from being magnanimous--neither to forgive, for my assailant would perhaps have slapped me from the laws of nature, and one cannot forgive the laws of nature; nor to forget, for even if it were owing to the laws of nature, it is insulting all the same. Finally, even if I had wanted to be anything but magnanimous, had desired on the contrary to revenge myself on my assailant, I could not have revenged myself on any one for anything because I should certainly never have made up my mind to do anything, even if I had been able to. Why should I not have made up my mind? About that in particular I want to say a few words. III With people who know how to revenge themselves and to stand up for themselves in general, how is it done? Why, when they are possessed, let us suppose, by the feeling of revenge, then for the time there is nothing else but that feeling left in their whole being. Such a gentleman simply dashes straight for his object like an infuriated bull with its horns down, and nothing but a wall will stop him. (By the way: facing the wall, such gentlemen--that is, the "direct" persons and men of action--are genuinely nonplussed. For them a wall is not an evasion, as for us people who think and consequently do nothing; it is not an excuse for turning aside, an excuse for which we are always very glad, though we scarcely believe in it ourselves, as a rule. No, they are nonplussed in all sincerity. The wall has for them something tranquillising, morally soothing, final-- maybe even something mysterious ... but of the wall later.) Well, such a direct person I regard as the real normal man, as his tender mother nature wished to see him when she graciously brought him into being on the earth. I envy such a man till I am green in the face. He is stupid. I am not disputing that, but perhaps the normal man should be stupid, how do you know? Perhaps it is very beautiful, in fact. And I am the more persuaded of that suspicion, if one can call it so, by the fact that if you take, for instance, the antithesis of the normal man, that is, the man of acute consciousness, who has come, of course, not out of the lap of nature but out of a retort (this is almost mysticism, gentlemen, but I suspect this, too), this retort-made man is sometimes so nonplussed in the presence of his antithesis that with all his exaggerated consciousness he genuinely thinks of himself as a mouse and not a man. It may be an acutely conscious mouse, yet it is a mouse, while the other is a man, and therefore, et caetera, et caetera. And the worst of it is, he himself, his very own self, looks on himself as a mouse; no one asks him to do so; and that is an important point. Now let us look at this mouse in action. Let us suppose, for instance, that it feels insulted, too (and it almost always does feel insulted), and wants to revenge itself, too. There may even be a greater accumulation of spite in it than in L'HOMME DE LA NATURE ET DE LA VERITE. The base and nasty desire to vent that spite on its assailant rankles perhaps even more nastily in it than in L'HOMME DE LA NATURE ET DE LA VERITE. For through his innate stupidity the latter looks upon his revenge as justice pure and simple; while in consequence of his acute consciousness the mouse does not believe in the justice of it. To come at last to the deed itself, to the very act of revenge. Apart from the one fundamental nastiness the luckless mouse succeeds in creating around it so many other nastinesses in the form of doubts and questions, adds to the one question so many unsettled questions that there inevitably works up around it a sort of fatal brew, a stinking mess, made up of its doubts, emotions, and of the contempt spat upon it by the direct men of action who stand solemnly about it as judges and arbitrators, laughing at it till their healthy sides ache. Of course the only thing left for it is to dismiss all that with a wave of its paw, and, with a smile of assumed contempt in which it does not even itself believe, creep ignominiously into its mouse-hole. There in its nasty, stinking, underground home our insulted, crushed and ridiculed mouse promptly becomes absorbed in cold, malignant and, above all, everlasting spite. For forty years together it will remember its injury down to the smallest, most ignominious details, and every time will add, of itself, details still more ignominious, spitefully teasing and tormenting itself with its own imagination. It will itself be ashamed of its imaginings, but yet it will recall it all, it will go over and over every detail, it will invent unheard of things against itself, pretending that those things might happen, and will forgive nothing. Maybe it will begin to revenge itself, too, but, as it were, piecemeal, in trivial ways, from behind the stove, incognito, without believing either in its own right to vengeance, or in the success of its revenge, knowing that from all its efforts at revenge it will suffer a hundred times more than he on whom it revenges itself, while he, I daresay, will not even scratch himself. On its deathbed it will recall it all over again, with interest accumulated over all the years and ... But it is just in that cold, abominable half despair, half belief, in that conscious burying oneself alive for grief in the underworld for forty years, in that acutely recognised and yet partly doubtful hopelessness of one's position, in that hell of unsatisfied desires turned inward, in that fever of oscillations, of resolutions determined for ever and repented of again a minute later--that the savour of that strange enjoyment of which I have spoken lies. It is so subtle, so difficult of analysis, that persons who are a little limited, or even simply persons of strong nerves, will not understand a single atom of it. "Possibly," you will add on your own account with a grin, "people will not understand it either who have never received a slap in the face," and in that way you will politely hint to me that I, too, perhaps, have had the experience of a slap in the face in my life, and so I speak as one who knows. I bet that you are thinking that. But set your minds at rest, gentlemen, I have not received a slap in the face, though it is absolutely a matter of indifference to me what you may think about it. Possibly, I even regret, myself, that I have given so few slaps in the face during my life. But enough ... not another word on that subject of such extreme interest to you. I will continue calmly concerning persons with strong nerves who do not understand a certain refinement of enjoyment. Though in certain circumstances these gentlemen bellow their loudest like bulls, though this, let us suppose, does them the greatest credit, yet, as I have said already, confronted with the impossible they subside at once. The impossible means the stone wall! What stone wall? Why, of course, the laws of nature, the deductions of natural science, mathematics. As soon as they prove to you, for instance, that you are descended from a monkey, then it is no use scowling, accept it for a fact. When they prove to you that in reality one drop of your own fat must be dearer to you than a hundred thousand of your fellow-creatures, and that this conclusion is the final solution of all so-called virtues and duties and all such prejudices and fancies, then you have just to accept it, there is no help for it, for twice two is a law of mathematics. Just try refuting it. "Upon my word, they will shout at you, it is no use protesting: it is a case of twice two makes four! Nature does not ask your permission, she has nothing to do with your wishes, and whether you like her laws or dislike them, you are bound to accept her as she is, and consequently all her conclusions. A wall, you see, is a wall ... and so on, and so on." Merciful Heavens! but what do I care for the laws of nature and arithmetic, when, for some reason I dislike those laws and the fact that twice two makes four? Of course I cannot break through the wall by battering my head against it if I really have not the strength to knock it down, but I am not going to be reconciled to it simply because it is a stone wall and I have not the strength. As though such a stone wall really were a consolation, and really did contain some word of conciliation, simply because it is as true as twice two makes four. Oh, absurdity of absurdities! How much better it is to understand it all, to recognise it all, all the impossibilities and the stone wall; not to be reconciled to one of those impossibilities and stone walls if it disgusts you to be reconciled to it; by the way of the most inevitable, logical combinations to reach the most revolting conclusions on the everlasting theme, that even for the stone wall you are yourself somehow to blame, though again it is as clear as day you are not to blame in the least, and therefore grinding your teeth in silent impotence to sink into luxurious inertia, brooding on the fact that there is no one even for you to feel vindictive against, that you have not, and perhaps never will have, an object for your spite, that it is a sleight of hand, a bit of juggling, a card- sharper's trick, that it is simply a mess, no knowing what and no knowing who, but in spite of all these uncertainties and jugglings, still there is an ache in you, and the more you do not know, the worse the ache. IV "Ha, ha, ha! You will be finding enjoyment in toothache next," you cry, with a laugh. "Well, even in toothache there is enjoyment," I answer. I had toothache for a whole month and I know there is. In that case, of course, people are not spiteful in silence, but moan; but they are not candid moans, they are malignant moans, and the malignancy is the whole point. The enjoyment of the sufferer finds expression in those moans; if he did not feel enjoyment in them he would not moan. It is a good example, gentlemen, and I will develop it. Those moans express in the first place all the aimlessness of your pain, which is so humiliating to your consciousness; the whole legal system of nature on which you spit disdainfully, of course, but from which you suffer all the same while she does not. They express the consciousness that you have no enemy to punish, but that you have pain; the consciousness that in spite of all possible Wagenheims you are in complete slavery to your teeth; that if someone wishes it, your teeth will leave off aching, and if he does not, they will go on aching another three months; and that finally if you are still contumacious and still protest, all that is left you for your own gratification is to thrash yourself or beat your wall with your fist as hard as you can, and absolutely nothing more. Well, these mortal insults, these jeers on the part of someone unknown, end at last in an enjoyment which sometimes reaches the highest degree of voluptuousness. I ask you, gentlemen, listen sometimes to the moans of an educated man of the nineteenth century suffering from toothache, on the second or third day of the attack, when he is beginning to moan, not as he moaned on the first day, that is, not simply because he has toothache, not just as any coarse peasant, but as a man affected by progress and European civilisation, a man who is "divorced from the soil and the national elements," as they express it now-a-days. His moans become nasty, disgustingly malignant, and go on for whole days and nights. And of course he knows himself that he is doing himself no sort of good with his moans; he knows better than anyone that he is only lacerating and harassing himself and others for nothing; he knows that even the audience before whom he is making his efforts, and his whole family, listen to him with loathing, do not put a ha'porth of faith in him, and inwardly understand that he might moan differently, more simply, without trills and flourishes, and that he is only amusing himself like that from ill-humour, from malignancy. Well, in all these recognitions and disgraces it is that there lies a voluptuous pleasure. As though he would say: "I am worrying you, I am lacerating your hearts, I am keeping everyone in the house awake. Well, stay awake then, you, too, feel every minute that I have toothache. I am not a hero to you now, as I tried to seem before, but simply a nasty person, an impostor. Well, so be it, then! I am very glad that you see through me. It is nasty for you to hear my despicable moans: well, let it be nasty; here I will let you have a nastier flourish in a minute. ..." You do not understand even now, gentlemen? No, it seems our development and our consciousness must go further to understand all the intricacies of this pleasure. You laugh? Delighted. My jests, gentlemen, are of course in bad taste, jerky, involved, lacking self-confidence. But of course that is because I do not respect myself. Can a man of perception respect himself at all? V Come, can a man who attempts to find enjoyment in the very feeling of his own degradation possibly have a spark of respect for himself? I am not saying this now from any mawkish kind of remorse. And, indeed, I could never endure saying, "Forgive me, Papa, I won't do it again," not because I am incapable of saying that--on the contrary, perhaps just because I have been too capable of it, and in what a way, too. As though of design I used to get into trouble in cases when I was not to blame in any way. That was the nastiest part of it. At the same time I was genuinely touched and penitent, I used to shed tears and, of course, deceived myself, though I was not acting in the least and there was a sick feeling in my heart at the time. ... For that one could not blame even the laws of nature, though the laws of nature have continually all my life offended me more than anything. It is loathsome to remember it all, but it was loathsome even then. Of course, a minute or so later I would realise wrathfully that it was all a lie, a revolting lie, an affected lie, that is, all this penitence, this emotion, these vows of reform. You will ask why did I worry myself with such antics: answer, because it was very dull to sit with one's hands folded, and so one began cutting capers. That is really it. Observe yourselves more carefully, gentlemen, then you will understand that it is so. I invented adventures for myself and made up a life, so as at least to live in some way. How many times it has happened to me--well, for instance, to take offence simply on purpose, for nothing; and one knows oneself, of course, that one is offended at nothing; that one is putting it on, but yet one brings oneself at last to the point of being really offended. All my life I have had an impulse to play such pranks, so that in the end I could not control it in myself. Another time, twice, in fact, I tried hard to be in love. I suffered, too, gentlemen, I assure you. In the depth of my heart there was no faith in my suffering, only a faint stir of mockery, but yet I did suffer, and in the real, orthodox way; I was jealous, beside myself ... and it was all from ENNUI, gentlemen, all from ENNUI; inertia overcame me. You know the direct, legitimate fruit of consciousness is inertia, that is, conscious sitting-with-the-hands-folded. I have referred to this already. I repeat, I repeat with emphasis: all "direct" persons and men of action are active just because they are stupid and limited. How explain that? I will tell you: in consequence of their limitation they take immediate and secondary causes for primary ones, and in that way persuade themselves more quickly and easily than other people do that they have found an infallible foundation for their activity, and their minds are at ease and you know that is the chief thing. To begin to act, you know, you must first have your mind completely at ease and no trace of doubt left in it. Why, how am I, for example, to set my mind at rest? Where are the primary causes on which I am to build? Where are my foundations? Where am I to get them from? I exercise myself in reflection, and consequently with me every primary cause at once draws after itself another still more primary, and so on to infinity. That is just the essence of every sort of consciousness and reflection. It must be a case of the laws of nature again. What is the result of it in the end? Why, just the same. Remember I spoke just now of vengeance. (I am sure you did not take it in.) I said that a man revenges himself because he sees justice in it. Therefore he has found a primary cause, that is, justice. And so he is at rest on all sides, and consequently he carries out his revenge calmly and successfully, being persuaded that he is doing a just and honest thing. But I see no justice in it, I find no sort of virtue in it either, and consequently if I attempt to revenge myself, it is only out of spite. Spite, of course, might overcome everything, all my doubts, and so might serve quite successfully in place of a primary cause, precisely because it is not a cause. But what is to be done if I have not even spite (I began with that just now, you know). In consequence again of those accursed laws of consciousness, anger in me is subject to chemical disintegration. You look into it, the object flies off into air, your reasons evaporate, the criminal is not to be found, the wrong becomes not a wrong but a phantom, something like the toothache, for which no one is to blame, and consequently there is only the same outlet left again--that is, to beat the wall as hard as you can. So you give it up with a wave of the hand because you have not found a fundamental cause. And try letting yourself be carried away by your feelings, blindly, without reflection, without a primary cause, repelling consciousness at least for a time; hate or love, if only not to sit with your hands folded. The day after tomorrow, at the latest, you will begin despising yourself for having knowingly deceived yourself. Result: a soap-bubble and inertia. Oh, gentlemen, do you know, perhaps I consider myself an intelligent man, only because all my life I have been able neither to begin nor to finish anything. Granted I am a babbler, a harmless vexatious babbler, like all of us. But what is to be done if the direct and sole vocation of every intelligent man is babble, that is, the intentional pouring of water through a sieve? VI Oh, if I had done nothing simply from laziness! Heavens, how I should have respected myself, then. I should have respected myself because I should at least have been capable of being lazy; there would at least have been one quality, as it were, positive in me, in which I could have believed myself. Question: What is he? Answer: A sluggard; how very pleasant it would have been to hear that of oneself! It would mean that I was positively defined, it would mean that there was something to say about me. "Sluggard"--why, it is a calling and vocation, it is a career. Do not jest, it is so. I should then be a member of the best club by right, and should find my occupation in continually respecting myself. I knew a gentleman who prided himself all his life on being a connoisseur of Lafitte. He considered this as his positive virtue, and never doubted himself. He died, not simply with a tranquil, but with a triumphant conscience, and he was quite right, too. Then I should have chosen a career for myself, I should have been a sluggard and a glutton, not a simple one, but, for instance, one with sympathies for everything sublime and beautiful. How do you like that? I have long had visions of it. That "sublime and beautiful" weighs heavily on my mind at forty But that is at forty; then--oh, then it would have been different! I should have found for myself a form of activity in keeping with it, to be precise, drinking to the health of everything "sublime and beautiful." I should have snatched at every opportunity to drop a tear into my glass and then to drain it to all that is "sublime and beautiful." I should then have turned everything into the sublime and the beautiful; in the nastiest, unquestionable trash, I should have sought out the sublime and the beautiful. I should have exuded tears like a wet sponge. An artist, for instance, paints a picture worthy of Gay. At once I drink to the health of the artist who painted the picture worthy of Gay, because I love all that is "sublime and beautiful." An author has written AS YOU WILL: at once I drink to the health of "anyone you will" because I love all that is "sublime and beautiful." I should claim respect for doing so. I should persecute anyone who would not show me respect. I should live at ease, I should die with dignity, why, it is charming, perfectly charming! And what a good round belly I should have grown, what a treble chin I should have established, what a ruby nose I should have coloured for myself, so that everyone would have said, looking at me: "Here is an asset! Here is something real and solid!" And, say what you like, it is very agreeable to hear such remarks about oneself in this negative age. VII But these are all golden dreams. Oh, tell me, who was it first announced, who was it first proclaimed, that man only does nasty things because he does not know his own interests; and that if he were enlightened, if his eyes were opened to his real normal interests, man would at once cease to do nasty things, would at once become good and noble because, being enlightened and understanding his real advantage, he would see his own advantage in the good and nothing else, and we all know that not one man can, consciously, act against his own interests, consequently, so to say, through necessity, he would begin doing good? Oh, the babe! Oh, the pure, innocent child! Why, in the first place, when in all these thousands of years has there been a time when man has acted only from his own interest? What is to be done with the millions of facts that bear witness that men, CONSCIOUSLY, that is fully understanding their real interests, have left them in the background and have rushed headlong on another path, to meet peril and danger, compelled to this course by nobody and by nothing, but, as it were, simply disliking the beaten track, and have obstinately, wilfully, struck out another difficult, absurd way, seeking it almost in the darkness. So, I suppose, this obstinacy and perversity were pleasanter to them than any advantage. ... Advantage! What is advantage? And will you take it upon yourself to define with perfect accuracy in what the advantage of man consists? And what if it so happens that a man's advantage, SOMETIMES, not only may, but even must, consist in his desiring in certain cases what is harmful to himself and not advantageous. And if so, if there can be such a case, the whole principle falls into dust. What do you think--are there such cases? You laugh; laugh away, gentlemen, but only answer me: have man's advantages been reckoned up with perfect certainty? Are there not some which not only have not been included but cannot possibly be included under any classification? You see, you gentlemen have, to the best of my knowledge, taken your whole register of human advantages from the averages of statistical figures and politico-economical formulas. Your advantages are prosperity, wealth, freedom, peace--and so on, and so on. So that the man who should, for instance, go openly and knowingly in opposition to all that list would to your thinking, and indeed mine, too, of course, be an obscurantist or an absolute madman: would not he? But, you know, this is what is surprising: why does it so happen that all these statisticians, sages and lovers of humanity, when they reckon up human advantages invariably leave out one? They don't even take it into their reckoning in the form in which it should be taken, and the whole reckoning depends upon that. It would be no greater matter, they would simply have to take it, this advantage, and add it to the list. But the trouble is, that this strange advantage does not fall under any classification and is not in place in any list. I have a friend for instance ... Ech! gentlemen, but of course he is your friend, too; and indeed there is no one, no one to whom he is not a friend! When he prepares for any undertaking this gentleman immediately explains to you, elegantly and clearly, exactly how he must act in accordance with the laws of reason and truth. What is more, he will talk to you with excitement and passion of the true normal interests of man; with irony he will upbraid the short- sighted fools who do not understand their own interests, nor the true significance of virtue; and, within a quarter of an hour, without any sudden outside provocation, but simply through something inside him which is stronger than all his interests, he will go off on quite a different tack--that is, act in direct opposition to what he has just been saying about himself, in opposition to the laws of reason, in opposition to his own advantage, in fact in opposition to everything ... I warn you that my friend is a compound personality and therefore it is difficult to blame him as an individual. The fact is, gentlemen, it seems there must really exist something that is dearer to almost every man than his greatest advantages, or (not to be illogical) there is a most advantageous advantage (the very one omitted of which we spoke just now) which is more important and more advantageous than all other advantages, for the sake of which a man if necessary is ready to act in opposition to all laws; that is, in opposition to reason, honour, peace, prosperity--in fact, in opposition to all those excellent and useful things if only he can attain that fundamental, most advantageous advantage which is dearer to him than all. "Yes, but it's advantage all the same," you will retort. But excuse me, I'll make the point clear, and it is not a case of playing upon words. What matters is, that this advantage is remarkable from the very fact that it breaks down all our classifications, and continually shatters every system constructed by lovers of mankind for the benefit of mankind. In fact, it upsets everything. But before I mention this advantage to you, I want to compromise myself personally, and therefore I boldly declare that all these fine systems, all these theories for explaining to mankind their real normal interests, in order that inevitably striving to pursue these interests they may at once become good and noble--are, in my opinion, so far, mere logical exercises! Yes, logical exercises. Why, to maintain this theory of the regeneration of mankind by means of the pursuit of his own advantage is to my mind almost the same thing ... as to affirm, for instance, following Buckle, that through civilisation mankind becomes softer, and consequently less bloodthirsty and less fitted for warfare. Logically it does seem to follow from his arguments. But man has such a predilection for systems and abstract deductions that he is ready to distort the truth intentionally, he is ready to deny the evidence of his senses only to justify his logic. I take this example because it is the most glaring instance of it. Only look about you: blood is being spilt in streams, and in the merriest way, as though it were champagne. Take the whole of the nineteenth century in which Buckle lived. Take Napoleon--the Great and also the present one. Take North America--the eternal union. Take the farce of Schleswig-Holstein .... And what is it that civilisation softens in us? The only gain of civilisation for mankind is the greater capacity for variety of sensations--and absolutely nothing more. And through the development of this many- sidedness man may come to finding enjoyment in bloodshed. In fact, this has already happened to him. Have you noticed that it is the most civilised gentlemen who have been the subtlest slaughterers, to whom the Attilas and Stenka Razins could not hold a candle, and if they are not so conspicuous as the Attilas and Stenka Razins it is simply because they are so often met with, are so ordinary and have become so familiar to us. In any case civilisation has made mankind if not more bloodthirsty, at least more vilely, more loathsomely bloodthirsty. In old days he saw justice in bloodshed and with his conscience at peace exterminated those he thought proper. Now we do think bloodshed abominable and yet we engage in this abomination, and with more energy than ever. Which is worse? Decide that for yourselves. They say that Cleopatra (excuse an instance from Roman history) was fond of sticking gold pins into her slave-girls' breasts and derived gratification from their screams and writhings. You will say that that was in the comparatively barbarous times; that these are barbarous times too, because also, comparatively speaking, pins are stuck in even now; that though man has now learned to see more clearly than in barbarous ages, he is still far from having learnt to act as reason and science would dictate. But yet you are fully convinced that he will be sure to learn when he gets rid of certain old bad habits, and when common sense and science have completely re-educated human nature and turned it in a normal direction. You are confident that then man will cease from INTENTIONAL error and will, so to say, be compelled not to want to set his will against his normal interests. That is not all; then, you say, science itself will teach man (though to my mind it's a superfluous luxury) that he never has really had any caprice or will of his own, and that he himself is something of the nature of a piano-key or the stop of an organ, and that there are, besides, things called the laws of nature; so that everything he does is not done by his willing it, but is done of itself, by the laws of nature. Consequently we have only to discover these laws of nature, and man will no longer have to answer for his actions and life will become exceedingly easy for him. All human actions will then, of course, be tabulated according to these laws, mathematically, like tables of logarithms up to 108,000, and entered in an index; or, better still, there would be published certain edifying works of the nature of encyclopaedic lexicons, in which everything will be so clearly calculated and explained that there will be no more incidents or adventures in the world. Then--this is all what you say--new economic relations will be established, all ready-made and worked out with mathematical exactitude, so that every possible question will vanish in the twinkling of an eye, simply because every possible answer to it will be provided. Then the "Palace of Crystal" will be built. Then ... In fact, those will be halcyon days. Of course there is no guaranteeing (this is my comment) that it will not be, for instance, frightfully dull then (for what will one have to do when everything will be calculated and tabulated), but on the other hand everything will be extraordinarily rational. Of course boredom may lead you to anything. It is boredom sets one sticking golden pins into people, but all that would not matter. What is bad (this is my comment again) is that I dare say people will be thankful for the gold pins then. Man is stupid, you know, phenomenally stupid; or rather he is not at all stupid, but he is so ungrateful that you could not find another like him in all creation. I, for instance, would not be in the least surprised if all of a sudden, A PROPOS of nothing, in the midst of general prosperity a gentleman with an ignoble, or rather with a reactionary and ironical, countenance were to arise and, putting his arms akimbo, say to us all: "I say, gentleman, hadn't we better kick over the whole show and scatter rationalism to the winds, simply to send these logarithms to the devil, and to enable us to live once more at our own sweet foolish will!" That again would not matter, but what is annoying is that he would be sure to find followers--such is the nature of man. And all that for the most foolish reason, which, one would think, was hardly worth mentioning: that is, that man everywhere and at all times, whoever he may be, has preferred to act as he chose and not in the least as his reason and advantage dictated. And one may choose what is contrary to one's own interests, and sometimes one POSITIVELY OUGHT (that is my idea). One's own free unfettered choice, one's own caprice, however wild it may be, one's own fancy worked up at times to frenzy--is that very "most advantageous advantage" which we have overlooked, which comes under no classification and against which all systems and theories are continually being shattered to atoms. And how do these wiseacres know that man wants a normal, a virtuous choice? What has made them conceive that man must want a rationally advantageous choice? What man wants is simply INDEPENDENT choice, whatever that independence may cost and wherever it may lead. And choice, of course, the devil only knows what choice. VIII "Ha! ha! ha! But you know there is no such thing as choice in reality, say what you like," you will interpose with a chuckle. "Science has succeeded in so far analysing man that we know already that choice and what is called freedom of will is nothing else than--" Stay, gentlemen, I meant to begin with that myself I confess, I was rather frightened. I was just going to say that the devil only knows what choice depends on, and that perhaps that was a very good thing, but I remembered the teaching of science ... and pulled myself up. And here you have begun upon it. Indeed, if there really is some day discovered a formula for all our desires and caprices--that is, an explanation of what they depend upon, by what laws they arise, how they develop, what they are aiming at in one case and in another and so on, that is a real mathematical formula--then, most likely, man will at once cease to feel desire, indeed, he will be certain to. For who would want to choose by rule? Besides, he will at once be transformed from a human being into an organ-stop or something of the sort; for what is a man without desires, without free will and without choice, if not a stop in an organ? What do you think? Let us reckon the chances--can such a thing happen or not? "H'm!" you decide. "Our choice is usually mistaken from a false view of our advantage. We sometimes choose absolute nonsense because in our foolishness we see in that nonsense the easiest means for attaining a supposed advantage. But when all that is explained and worked out on paper (which is perfectly possible, for it is contemptible and senseless to suppose that some laws of nature man will never understand), then certainly so-called desires will no longer exist. For if a desire should come into conflict with reason we shall then reason and not desire, because it will be impossible retaining our reason to be SENSELESS in our desires, and in that way knowingly act against reason and desire to injure ourselves. And as all choice and reasoning can be really calculated--because there will some day be discovered the laws of our so-called free will--so, joking apart, there may one day be something like a table constructed of them, so that we really shall choose in accordance with it. If, for instance, some day they calculate and prove to me that I made a long nose at someone because I could not help making a long nose at him and that I had to do it in that particular way, what FREEDOM is left me, especially if I am a learned man and have taken my degree somewhere? Then I should be able to calculate my whole life for thirty years beforehand. In short, if this could be arranged there would be nothing left for us to do; anyway, we should have to understand that. And, in fact, we ought unwearyingly to repeat to ourselves that at such and such a time and in such and such circumstances nature does not ask our leave; that we have got to take her as she is and not fashion her to suit our fancy, and if we really aspire to formulas and tables of rules, and well, even ... to the chemical retort, there's no help for it, we must accept the retort too, or else it will be accepted without our consent ...." Yes, but here I come to a stop! Gentlemen, you must excuse me for being over-philosophical; it's the result of forty years underground! Allow me to indulge my fancy. You see, gentlemen, reason is an excellent thing, there's no disputing that, but reason is nothing but reason and satisfies only the rational side of man's nature, while will is a manifestation of the whole life, that is, of the whole human life including reason and all the impulses. And although our life, in this manifestation of it, is often worthless, yet it is life and not simply extracting square roots. Here I, for instance, quite naturally want to live, in order to satisfy all my capacities for life, and not simply my capacity for reasoning, that is, not simply one twentieth of my capacity for life. What does reason know? Reason only knows what it has succeeded in learning (some things, perhaps, it will never learn; this is a poor comfort, but why not say so frankly?) and human nature acts as a whole, with everything that is in it, consciously or unconsciously, and, even if it goes wrong, it lives. I suspect, gentlemen, that you are looking at me with compassion; you tell me again that an enlightened and developed man, such, in short, as the future man will be, cannot consciously desire anything disadvantageous to himself, that that can be proved mathematically. I thoroughly agree, it can--by mathematics. But I repeat for the hundredth time, there is one case, one only, when man may consciously, purposely, desire what is injurious to himself, what is stupid, very stupid--simply in order to have the right to desire for himself even what is very stupid and not to be bound by an obligation to desire only what is sensible. Of course, this very stupid thing, this caprice of ours, may be in reality, gentlemen, more advantageous for us than anything else on earth, especially in certain cases. And in particular it may be more advantageous than any advantage even when it does us obvious harm, and contradicts the soundest conclusions of our reason concerning our advantage--for in any circumstances it preserves for us what is most precious and most important--that is, our personality, our individuality. Some, you see, maintain that this really is the most precious thing for mankind; choice can, of course, if it chooses, be in agreement with reason; and especially if this be not abused but kept within bounds. It is profitable and sometimes even praiseworthy. But very often, and even most often, choice is utterly and stubbornly opposed to reason ... and ... and ... do you know that that, too, is profitable, sometimes even praiseworthy? Gentlemen, let us suppose that man is not stupid. (Indeed one cannot refuse to suppose that, if only from the one consideration, that, if man is stupid, then who is wise?) But if he is not stupid, he is monstrously ungrateful! Phenomenally ungrateful. In fact, I believe that the best definition of man is the ungrateful biped. But that is not all, that is not his worst defect; his worst defect is his perpetual moral obliquity, perpetual--from the days of the Flood to the Schleswig-Holstein period. Moral obliquity and consequently lack of good sense; for it has long been accepted that lack of good sense is due to no other cause than moral obliquity. Put it to the test and cast your eyes upon the history of mankind. What will you see? Is it a grand spectacle? Grand, if you like. Take the Colossus of Rhodes, for instance, that's worth something. With good reason Mr. Anaevsky testifies of it that some say that it is the work of man's hands, while others maintain that it has been created by nature herself. Is it many-coloured? May be it is many-coloured, too: if one takes the dress uniforms, military and civilian, of all peoples in all ages--that alone is worth something, and if you take the undress uniforms you will never get to the end of it; no historian would be equal to the job. Is it monotonous? May be it's monotonous too: it's fighting and fighting; they are fighting now, they fought first and they fought last--you will admit, that it is almost too monotonous. In short, one may say anything about the history of the world--anything that might enter the most disordered imagination. The only thing one can't say is that it's rational. The very word sticks in one's throat. And, indeed, this is the odd thing that is continually happening: there are continually turning up in life moral and rational persons, sages and lovers of humanity who make it their object to live all their lives as morally and rationally as possible, to be, so to speak, a light to their neighbours simply in order to show them that it is possible to live morally and rationally in this world. And yet we all know that those very people sooner or later have been false to themselves, playing some queer trick, often a most unseemly one. Now I ask you: what can be expected of man since he is a being endowed with strange qualities? Shower upon him every earthly blessing, drown him in a sea of happiness, so that nothing but bubbles of bliss can be seen on the surface; give him economic prosperity, such that he should have nothing else to do but sleep, eat cakes and busy himself with the continuation of his species, and even then out of sheer ingratitude, sheer spite, man would play you some nasty trick. He would even risk his cakes and would deliberately desire the most fatal rubbish, the most uneconomical absurdity, simply to introduce into all this positive good sense his fatal fantastic element. It is just his fantastic dreams, his vulgar folly that he will desire to retain, simply in order to prove to himself--as though that were so necessary-- that men still are men and not the keys of a piano, which the laws of nature threaten to control so completely that soon one will be able to desire nothing but by the calendar. And that is not all: even if man really were nothing but a piano-key, even if this were proved to him by natural science and mathematics, even then he would not become reasonable, but would purposely do something perverse out of simple ingratitude, simply to gain his point. And if he does not find means he will contrive destruction and chaos, will contrive sufferings of all sorts, only to gain his point! He will launch a curse upon the world, and as only man can curse (it is his privilege, the primary distinction between him and other animals), may be by his curse alone he will attain his object--that is, convince himself that he is a man and not a piano-key! If you say that all this, too, can be calculated and tabulated--chaos and darkness and curses, so that the mere possibility of calculating it all beforehand would stop it all, and reason would reassert itself, then man would purposely go mad in order to be rid of reason and gain his point! I believe in it, I answer for it, for the whole work of man really seems to consist in nothing but proving to himself every minute that he is a man and not a piano-key! It may be at the cost of his skin, it may be by cannibalism! And this being so, can one help being tempted to rejoice that it has not yet come off, and that desire still depends on something we don't know? You will scream at me (that is, if you condescend to do so) that no one is touching my free will, that all they are concerned with is that my will should of itself, of its own free will, coincide with my own normal interests, with the laws of nature and arithmetic. Good heavens, gentlemen, what sort of free will is left when we come to tabulation and arithmetic, when it will all be a case of twice two make four? Twice two makes four without my will. As if free will meant that! IX Gentlemen, I am joking, and I know myself that my jokes are not brilliant,but you know one can take everything as a joke. I am, perhaps, jesting against the grain. Gentlemen, I am tormented by questions; answer them for me. You, for instance, want to cure men of their old habits and reform their will in accordance with science and good sense. But how do you know, not only that it is possible, but also that it is DESIRABLE to reform man in that way? And what leads you to the conclusion that man's inclinations NEED reforming? In short, how do you know that such a reformation will be a benefit to man? And to go to the root of the matter, why are you so positively convinced that not to act against his real normal interests guaranteed by the conclusions of reason and arithmetic is certainly always advantageous for man and must always be a law for mankind? So far, you know, this is only your supposition. It may be the law of logic, but not the law of humanity. You think, gentlemen, perhaps that I am mad? Allow me to defend myself. I agree that man is pre-eminently a creative animal, predestined to strive consciously for an object and to engage in engineering--that is, incessantly and eternally to make new roads, WHEREVER THEY MAY LEAD. But the reason why he wants sometimes to go off at a tangent may just be that he is PREDESTINED to make the road, and perhaps, too, that however stupid the "direct" practical man may be, the thought sometimes will occur to him that the road almost always does lead SOMEWHERE, and that the destination it leads to is less important than the process of making it, and that the chief thing is to save the well-conducted child from despising engineering, and so giving way to the fatal idleness, which, as we all know, is the mother of all the vices. Man likes to make roads and to create, that is a fact beyond dispute. But why has he such a passionate love for destruction and chaos also? Tell me that! But on that point I want to say a couple of words myself. May it not be that he loves chaos and destruction (there can be no disputing that he does sometimes love it) because he is instinctively afraid of attaining his object and completing the edifice he is constructing? Who knows, perhaps he only loves that edifice from a distance, and is by no means in love with it at close quarters; perhaps he only loves building it and does not want to live in it, but will leave it, when completed, for the use of LES ANIMAUX DOMESTIQUES--such as the ants, the sheep, and so on. Now the ants have quite a different taste. They have a marvellous edifice of that pattern which endures for ever--the ant-heap. With the ant-heap the respectable race of ants began and with the ant- heap they will probably end, which does the greatest credit to their perseverance and good sense. But man is a frivolous and incongruous creature, and perhaps, like a chess player, loves the process of the game, not the end of it. And who knows (there is no saying with certainty), perhaps the only goal on earth to which mankind is striving lies in this incessant process of attaining, in other words, in life itself, and not in the thing to be attained, which must always be expressed as a formula, as positive as twice two makes four, and such positiveness is not life, gentlemen, but is the beginning of death. Anyway, man has always been afraid of this mathematical certainty, and I am afraid of it now. Granted that man does nothing but seek that mathematical certainty, he traverses oceans, sacrifices his life in the quest, but to succeed, really to find it, dreads, I assure you. He feels that when he has found it there will be nothing for him to look for. When workmen have finished their work they do at least receive their pay, they go to the tavern, then they are taken to the police-station--and there is occupation for a week. But where can man go? Anyway, one can observe a certain awkwardness about him when he has attained such objects. He loves the process of attaining, but does not quite like to have attained, and that, of course, is very absurd. In fact, man is a comical creature; there seems to be a kind of jest in it all. But yet mathematical certainty is after all, something insufferable. Twice two makes four seems to me simply a piece of insolence. Twice two makes four is a pert coxcomb who stands with arms akimbo barring your path and spitting. I admit that twice two makes four is an excellent thing, but if we are to give everything its due, twice two makes five is sometimes a very charming thing too. And why are you so firmly, so triumphantly, convinced that only the normal and the positive--in other words, only what is conducive to welfare--is for the advantage of man? Is not reason in error as regards advantage? Does not man, perhaps, love something besides well-being? Perhaps he is just as fond of suffering? Perhaps suffering is just as great a benefit to him as well-being? Man is sometimes extraordinarily, passionately, in love with suffering, and that is a fact. There is no need to appeal to universal history to prove that; only ask yourself, if you are a man and have lived at all. As far as my personal opinion is concerned, to care only for well-being seems to me positively ill-bred. Whether it's good or bad, it is sometimes very pleasant, too, to smash things. I hold no brief for suffering nor for well-being either. I am standing for ... my caprice, and for its being guaranteed to me when necessary. Suffering would be out of place in vaudevilles, for instance; I know that. In the "Palace of Crystal" it is unthinkable; suffering means doubt, negation, and what would be the good of a "palace of crystal" if there could be any doubt about it? And yet I think man will never renounce real suffering, that is, destruction and chaos. Why, suffering is the sole origin of consciousness. Though I did lay it down at the beginning that consciousness is the greatest misfortune for man, yet I know man prizes it and would not give it up for any satisfaction. Consciousness, for instance, is infinitely superior to twice two makes four. Once you have mathematical certainty there is nothing left to do or to understand. There will be nothing left but to bottle up your five senses and plunge into contemplation. While if you stick to consciousness, even though the same result is attained, you can at least flog yourself at times, and that will, at any rate, liven you up. Reactionary as it is, corporal punishment is better than nothing. X You believe in a palace of crystal that can never be destroyed--a palace at which one will not be able to put out one's tongue or make a long nose on the sly. And perhaps that is just why I am afraid of this edifice, that it is of crystal and can never be destroyed and that one cannot put one's tongue out at it even on the sly. You see, if it were not a palace, but a hen-house, I might creep into it to avoid getting wet, and yet I would not call the hen-house a palace out of gratitude to it for keeping me dry. You laugh and say that in such circumstances a hen-house is as good as a mansion. Yes, I answer, if one had to live simply to keep out of the rain. But what is to be done if I have taken it into my head that that is not the only object in life, and that if one must live one had better live in a mansion? That is my choice, my desire. You will only eradicate it when you have changed my preference. Well, do change it, allure me with something else, give me another ideal. But meanwhile I will not take a hen-house for a mansion. The palace of crystal may be an idle dream, it may be that it is inconsistent with the laws of nature and that I have invented it only through my own stupidity, through the old-fashioned irrational habits of my generation. But what does it matter to me that it is inconsistent? That makes no difference since it exists in my desires, or rather exists as long as my desires exist. Perhaps you are laughing again? Laugh away; I will put up with any mockery rather than pretend that I am satisfied when I am hungry. I know, anyway, that I will not be put off with a compromise, with a recurring zero, simply because it is consistent with the laws of nature and actually exists. I will not accept as the crown of my desires a block of buildings with tenements for the poor on a lease of a thousand years, and perhaps with a sign-board of a dentist hanging out. Destroy my desires, eradicate my ideals, show me something better, and I will follow you. You will say, perhaps, that it is not worth your trouble; but in that case I can give you the same answer. We are discussing things seriously; but if you won't deign to give me your attention, I will drop your acquaintance. I can retreat into my underground hole. But while I am alive and have desires I would rather my hand were withered off than bring one brick to such a building! Don't remind me that I have just rejected the palace of crystal for the sole reason that one cannot put out one's tongue at it. I did not say because I am so fond of putting my tongue out. Perhaps the thing I resented was, that of all your edifices there has not been one at which one could not put out one's tongue. On the contrary, I would let my tongue be cut off out of gratitude if things could be so arranged that I should lose all desire to put it out. It is not my fault that things cannot be so arranged, and that one must be satisfied with model flats. Then why am I made with such desires? Can I have been constructed simply in order to come to the conclusion that all my construction is a cheat? Can this be my whole purpose? I do not believe it. But do you know what: I am convinced that we underground folk ought to be kept on a curb. Though we may sit forty years underground without speaking, when we do come out into the light of day and break out we talk and talk and talk .... XI The long and the short of it is, gentlemen, that it is better to do nothing! Better conscious inertia! And so hurrah for underground! Though I have said that I envy the normal man to the last drop of my bile, yet I should not care to be in his place such as he is now (though I shall not cease envying him). No, no; anyway the underground life is more advantageous. There, at any rate, one can ... Oh, but even now I am lying! I am lying because I know myself that it is not underground that is better, but something different, quite different, for which I am thirsting, but which I cannot find! Damn underground! I will tell you another thing that would be better, and that is, if I myself believed in anything of what I have just written. I swear to you, gentlemen, there is not one thing, not one word of what I have written that I really believe. That is, I believe it, perhaps, but at the same time I feel and suspect that I am lying like a cobbler. "Then why have you written all this?" you will say to me. "I ought to put you underground for forty years without anything to do and then come to you in your cellar, to find out what stage you have reached! How can a man be left with nothing to do for forty years?" "Isn't that shameful, isn't that humiliating?" you will say, perhaps, wagging your heads contemptuously. "You thirst for life and try to settle the problems of life by a logical tangle. And how persistent, how insolent are your sallies, and at the same time what a scare you are in! You talk nonsense and are pleased with it; you say impudent things and are in continual alarm and apologising for them. You declare that you are afraid of nothing and at the same time try to ingratiate yourself in our good opinion. You declare that you are gnashing your teeth and at the same time you try to be witty so as to amuse us. You know that your witticisms are not witty, but you are evidently well satisfied with their literary value. You may, perhaps, have really suffered, but you have no respect for your own suffering. You may have sincerity, but you have no modesty; out of the pettiest vanity you expose your sincerity to publicity and ignominy. You doubtlessly mean to say something, but hide your last word through fear, because you have not the resolution to utter it, and only have a cowardly impudence. You boast of consciousness, but you are not sure of your ground, for though your mind works, yet your heart is darkened and corrupt, and you cannot have a full, genuine consciousness without a pure heart. And how intrusive you are, how you insist and grimace! Lies, lies, lies!" Of course I have myself made up all the things you say. That, too, is from underground. I have been for forty years listening to you through a crack under the floor. I have invented them myself, there was nothing else I could invent. It is no wonder that I have learned it by heart and it has taken a literary form .... But can you really be so credulous as to think that I will print all this and give it to you to read too? And another problem: why do I call you "gentlemen," why do I address you as though you really were my readers? Such confessions as I intend to make are never printed nor given to other people to read. Anyway, I am not strong-minded enough for that, and I don't see why I should be. But you see a fancy has occurred to me and I want to realise it at all costs. Let me explain. Every man has reminiscences which he would not tell to everyone, but only to his friends. He has other matters in his mind which he would not reveal even to his friends, but only to himself, and that in secret. But there are other things which a man is afraid to tell even to himself, and every decent man has a number of such things stored away in his mind. The more decent he is, the greater the number of such things in his mind. Anyway, I have only lately determined to remember some of my early adventures. Till now I have always avoided them, even with a certain uneasiness. Now, when I am not only recalling them, but have actually decided to write an account of them, I want to try the experiment whether one can, even with oneself, be perfectly open and not take fright at the whole truth. I will observe, in parenthesis, that Heine says that a true autobiography is almost an impossibility, and that man is bound to lie about himself. He considers that Rousseau certainly told lies about himself in his confessions, and even intentionally lied, out of vanity. I am convinced that Heine is right; I quite understand how sometimes one may, out of sheer vanity, attribute regular crimes to oneself, and indeed I can very well conceive that kind of vanity. But Heine judged of people who made their confessions to the public. I write only for myself, and I wish to declare once and for all that if I write as though I were addressing readers, that is simply because it is easier for me to write in that form. It is a form, an empty form--I shall never have readers. I have made this plain already ... I don't wish to be hampered by any restrictions in the compilation of my notes. I shall not attempt any system or method. I will jot things down as I remember them. But here, perhaps, someone will catch at the word and ask me: if you really don't reckon on readers, why do you make such compacts with yourself--and on paper too--that is, that you won't attempt any system or method, that you jot things down as you remember them, and so on, and so on? Why are you explaining? Why do you apologise? Well, there it is, I answer. There is a whole psychology in all this, though. Perhaps it is simply that I am a coward. And perhaps that I purposely imagine an audience before me in order that I may be more dignified while I write. There are perhaps thousands of reasons. Again, what is my object precisely in writing? If it is not for the benefit of the public why should I not simply recall these incidents in my own mind without putting them on paper? Quite so; but yet it is more imposing on paper. There is something more impressive in it; I shall be better able to criticise myself and improve my style. Besides, I shall perhaps obtain actual relief from writing. Today, for instance, I am particularly oppressed by one memory of a distant past. It came back vividly to my mind a few days ago, and has remained haunting me like an annoying tune that one cannot get rid of. And yet I must get rid of it somehow. I have hundreds of such reminiscences; but at times some one stands out from the hundred and oppresses me. For some reason I believe that if I write it down I should get rid of it. Why not try? Besides, I am bored, and I never have anything to do. Writing will be a sort of work. They say work makes man kind-hearted and honest. Well, here is a chance for me, anyway. Snow is falling today, yellow and dingy. It fell yesterday, too, and a few days ago. I fancy it is the wet snow that has reminded me of that incident which I cannot shake off now. And so let it be a story A PROPOS of the falling snow. PART II A Propos of the Wet Snow When from dark error's subjugation My words of passionate exhortation Had wrenched thy fainting spirit free; And writhing prone in thine affliction Thou didst recall with malediction The vice that had encompassed thee: And when thy slumbering conscience, fretting By recollection's torturing flame, Thou didst reveal the hideous setting Of thy life's current ere I came: When suddenly I saw thee sicken, And weeping, hide thine anguished face, Revolted, maddened, horror-stricken, At memories of foul disgrace. NEKRASSOV (translated by Juliet Soskice). I AT THAT TIME I was only twenty-four. My life was even then gloomy, ill- regulated, and as solitary as that of a savage. I made friends with no one and positively avoided talking, and buried myself more and more in my hole. At work in the office I never looked at anyone, and was perfectly well aware that my companions looked upon me, not only as a queer fellow, but even looked upon me--I always fancied this--with a sort of loathing. I sometimes wondered why it was that nobody except me fancied that he was looked upon with aversion? One of the clerks had a most repulsive, pock-marked face, which looked positively villainous. I believe I should not have dared to look at anyone with such an unsightly countenance. Another had such a very dirty old uniform that there was an unpleasant odour in his proximity. Yet not one of these gentlemen showed the slightest self-consciousness--either about their clothes or their countenance or their character in any way. Neither of them ever imagined that they were looked at with repulsion; if they had imagined it they would not have minded--so long as their superiors did not look at them in that way. It is clear to me now that, owing to my unbounded vanity and to the high standard I set for myself, I often looked at myself with furious discontent, which verged on loathing, and so I inwardly attributed the same feeling to everyone. I hated my face, for instance: I thought it disgusting, and even suspected that there was something base in my expression, and so every day when I turned up at the office I tried to behave as independently as possible, and to assume a lofty expression, so that I might not be suspected of being abject. "My face may be ugly," I thought, "but let it be lofty, expressive, and, above all, EXTREMELY intelligent." But I was positively and painfully certain that it was impossible for my countenance ever to express those qualities. And what was worst of all, I thought it actually stupid looking, and I would have been quite satisfied if I could have looked intelligent. In fact, I would even have put up with looking base if, at the same time, my face could have been thought strikingly intelligent. Of course, I hated my fellow clerks one and all, and I despised them all, yet at the same time I was, as it were, afraid of them. In fact, it happened at times that I thought more highly of them than of myself. It somehow happened quite suddenly that I alternated between despising them and thinking them superior to myself. A cultivated and decent man cannot be vain without setting a fearfully high standard for himself, and without despising and almost hating himself at certain moments. But whether I despised them or thought them superior I dropped my eyes almost every time I met anyone. I even made experiments whether I could face so and so's looking at me, and I was always the first to drop my eyes. This worried me to distraction. I had a sickly dread, too, of being ridiculous, and so had a slavish passion for the conventional in everything external. I loved to fall into the common rut, and had a whole-hearted terror of any kind of eccentricity in myself. But how could I live up to it? I was morbidly sensitive as a man of our age should be. They were all stupid, and as like one another as so many sheep. Perhaps I was the only one in the office who fancied that I was a coward and a slave, and I fancied it just because I was more highly developed. But it was not only that I fancied it, it really was so. I was a coward and a slave. I say this without the slightest embarrassment. Every decent man of our age must be a coward and a slave. That is his normal condition. Of that I am firmly persuaded. He is made and constructed to that very end. And not only at the present time owing to some casual circumstances, but always, at all times, a decent man is bound to be a coward and a slave. It is the law of nature for all decent people all over the earth. If anyone of them happens to be valiant about something, he need not be comforted nor carried away by that; he would show the white feather just the same before something else. That is how it invariably and inevitably ends. Only donkeys and mules are valiant, and they only till they are pushed up to the wall. It is not worth while to pay attention to them for they really are of no consequence. Another circumstance, too, worried me in those days: that there was no one like me and I was unlike anyone else. "I am alone and they are EVERYONE," I thought--and pondered. From that it is evident that I was still a youngster. The very opposite sometimes happened. It was loathsome sometimes to go to the office; things reached such a point that I often came home ill. But all at once, A PROPOS of nothing, there would come a phase of scepticism and indifference (everything happened in phases to me), and I would laugh myself at my intolerance and fastidiousness, I would reproach myself with being ROMANTIC. At one time I was unwilling to speak to anyone, while at other times I would not only talk, but go to the length of contemplating making friends with them. All my fastidiousness would suddenly, for no rhyme or reason, vanish. Who knows, perhaps I never had really had it, and it had simply been affected, and got out of books. I have not decided that question even now. Once I quite made friends with them, visited their homes, played preference, drank vodka, talked of promotions .... But here let me make a digression. We Russians, speaking generally, have never had those foolish transcendental "romantics"--German, and still more French--on whom nothing produces any effect; if there were an earthquake, if all France perished at the barricades, they would still be the same, they would not even have the decency to affect a change, but would still go on singing their transcendental songs to the hour of their death, because they are fools. We, in Russia, have no fools; that is well known. That is what distinguishes us from foreign lands. Consequently these transcendental natures are not found amongst us in their pure form. The idea that they are is due to our "realistic" journalists and critics of that day, always on the look out for Kostanzhoglos and Uncle Pyotr Ivanitchs and foolishly accepting them as our ideal; they have slandered our romantics, taking them for the same transcendental sort as in Germany or France. On the contrary, the characteristics of our "romantics" are absolutely and directly opposed to the transcendental European type, and no European standard can be applied to them. (Allow me to make use of this word "romantic"--an old-fashioned and much respected word which has done good service and is familiar to all.) The characteristics of our romantic are to understand everything, TO SEE EVERYTHING AND TO SEE IT OFTEN INCOMPARABLY MORE CLEARLY THAN OUR MOST REALISTIC MINDS SEE IT; to refuse to accept anyone or anything, but at the same time not to despise anything; to give way, to yield, from policy; never to lose sight of a useful practical object (such as rent-free quarters at the government expense, pensions, decorations), to keep their eye on that object through all the enthusiasms and volumes of lyrical poems, and at the same time to preserve "the sublime and the beautiful" inviolate within them to the hour of their death, and to preserve themselves also, incidentally, like some precious jewel wrapped in cotton wool if only for the benefit of "the sublime and the beautiful." Our "romantic" is a man of great breadth and the greatest rogue of all our rogues, I assure you .... I can assure you from experience, indeed. Of course, that is, if he is intelligent. But what am I saying! The romantic is always intelligent, and I only meant to observe that although we have had foolish romantics they don't count, and they were only so because in the flower of their youth they degenerated into Germans, and to preserve their precious jewel more comfortably, settled somewhere out there--by preference in Weimar or the Black Forest. I, for instance, genuinely despised my official work and did not openly abuse it simply because I was in it myself and got a salary for it. Anyway, take note, I did not openly abuse it. Our romantic would rather go out of his mind--a thing, however, which very rarely happens--than take to open abuse, unless he had some other career in view; and he is never kicked out. At most, they would take him to the lunatic asylum as "the King of Spain" if he should go very mad. But it is only the thin, fair people who go out of their minds in Russia. Innumerable "romantics" attain later in life to considerable rank in the service. Their many-sidedness is remarkable! And what a faculty they have for the most contradictory sensations! I was comforted by this thought even in those days, and I am of the same opinion now. That is why there are so many "broad natures" among us who never lose their ideal even in the depths of degradation; and though they never stir a finger for their ideal, though they are arrant thieves and knaves, yet they tearfully cherish their first ideal and are extraordinarily honest at heart. Yes, it is only among us that the most incorrigible rogue can be absolutely and loftily honest at heart without in the least ceasing to be a rogue. I repeat, our romantics, frequently, become such accomplished rascals (I use the term "rascals" affectionately), suddenly display such a sense of reality and practical knowledge that their bewildered superiors and the public generally can only ejaculate in amazement. Their many-sidedness is really amazing, and goodness knows what it may develop into later on, and what the future has in store for us. It is not a poor material! I do not say this from any foolish or boastful patriotism. But I feel sure that you are again imagining that I am joking. Or perhaps it's just the contrary and you are convinced that I really think so. Anyway, gentlemen, I shall welcome both views as an honour and a special favour. And do forgive my digression. I did not, of course, maintain friendly relations with my comrades and soon was at loggerheads with them, and in my youth and inexperience I even gave up bowing to them, as though I had cut off all relations. That, however, only happened to me once. As a rule, I was always alone. In the first place I spent most of my time at home, reading. I tried to stifle all that was continually seething within me by means of external impressions. And the only external means I had was reading. Reading, of course, was a great help--exciting me, giving me pleasure and pain. But at times it bored me fearfully. One longed for movement in spite of everything, and I plunged all at once into dark, underground, loathsome vice of the pettiest kind. My wretched passions were acute, smarting, from my continual, sickly irritability I had hysterical impulses, with tears and convulsions. I had no resource except reading, that is, there was nothing in my surroundings which I could respect and which attracted me. I was overwhelmed with depression, too; I had an hysterical craving for incongruity and for contrast, and so I took to vice. I have not said all this to justify myself .... But, no! I am lying. I did want to justify myself. I make that little observation for my own benefit, gentlemen. I don't want to lie. I vowed to myself I would not. And so, furtively, timidly, in solitude, at night, I indulged in filthy vice, with a feeling of shame which never deserted me, even at the most loathsome moments, and which at such moments nearly made me curse. Already even then I had my underground world in my soul. I was fearfully afraid of being seen, of being met, of being recognised. I visited various obscure haunts. One night as I was passing a tavern I saw through a lighted window some gentlemen fighting with billiard cues, and saw one of them thrown out of the window. At other times I should have felt very much disgusted, but I was in such a mood at the time, that I actually envied the gentleman thrown out of the window--and I envied him so much that I even went into the tavern and into the billiard-room. "Perhaps," I thought, "I'll have a fight, too, and they'll throw me out of the window." I was not drunk--but what is one to do--depression will drive a man to such a pitch of hysteria? But nothing happened. It seemed that I was not even equal to being thrown out of the window and I went away without having my fight. An officer put me in my place from the first moment. I was standing by the billiard-table and in my ignorance blocking up the way, and he wanted to pass; he took me by the shoulders and without a word--without a warning or explanation--moved me from where I was standing to another spot and passed by as though he had not noticed me. I could have forgiven blows, but I could not forgive his having moved me without noticing me. Devil knows what I would have given for a real regular quarrel--a more decent, a more LITERARY one, so to speak. I had been treated like a fly. This officer was over six foot, while I was a spindly little fellow. But the quarrel was in my hands. I had only to protest and I certainly would have been thrown out of the window. But I changed my mind and preferred to beat a resentful retreat. I went out of the tavern straight home, confused and troubled, and the next night I went out again with the same lewd intentions, still more furtively, abjectly and miserably than before, as it were, with tears in my eyes--but still I did go out again. Don't imagine, though, it was coward- ice made me slink away from the officer; I never have been a coward at heart, though I have always been a coward in action. Don't be in a hurry to laugh--I assure you I can explain it all. Oh, if only that officer had been one of the sort who would consent to fight a duel! But no, he was one of those gentlemen (alas, long extinct!) who preferred fighting with cues or, like Gogol's Lieutenant Pirogov, appealing to the police. They did not fight duels and would have thought a duel with a civilian like me an utterly unseemly procedure in any case--and they looked upon the duel altogether as something impossible, something free-thinking and French. But they were quite ready to bully, especially when they were over six foot. I did not slink away through cowardice, but through an unbounded vanity. I was afraid not of his six foot, not of getting a sound thrashing and being thrown out of the window; I should have had physical courage enough, I assure you; but I had not the moral courage. What I was afraid of was that everyone present, from the insolent marker down to the lowest little stinking, pimply clerk in a greasy collar, would jeer at me and fail to understand when I began to protest and to address them in literary language. For of the point of honour--not of honour, but of the point of honour (POINT D'HONNEUR)--one cannot speak among us except in literary language. You can't allude to the "point of honour" in ordinary language. I was fully convinced (the sense of reality, in spite of all my romanticism!) that they would all simply split their sides with laughter, and that the officer would not simply beat me, that is, without insulting me, but would certainly prod me in the back with his knee, kick me round the billiard- table, and only then perhaps have pity and drop me out of the window. Of course, this trivial incident could not with me end in that. I often met that officer afterwards in the street and noticed him very carefully. I am not quite sure whether he recognised me, I imagine not; I judge from certain signs. But I--I stared at him with spite and hatred and so it went on ... for several years! My resentment grew even deeper with years. At first I began making stealthy inquiries about this officer. It was difficult for me to do so, for I knew no one. But one day I heard someone shout his surname in the street as I was following him at a distance, as though I were tied to him--and so I learnt his surname. Another time I followed him to his flat, and for ten kopecks learned from the porter where he lived, on which storey, whether he lived alone or with others, and so on--in fact, everything one could learn from a porter. One morning, though I had never tried my hand with the pen, it suddenly occurred to me to write a satire on this officer in the form of a novel which would unmask his villainy. I wrote the novel with relish. I did unmask his villainy, I even exaggerated it; at first I so altered his surname that it could easily be recognised, but on second thoughts I changed it, and sent the story to the OTETCHESTVENNIYA ZAPISKI. But at that time such attacks were not the fashion and my story was not printed. That was a great vexation to me. Sometimes I was positively choked with resentment. At last I determined to challenge my enemy to a duel. I composed a splendid, charming letter to him, imploring him to apologise to me, and hinting rather plainly at a duel in case of refusal. The letter was so composed that if the officer had had the least understanding of the sublime and the beautiful he would certainly have flung himself on my neck and have offered me his friendship. And how fine that would have been! How we should have got on together! "He could have shielded me with his higher rank, while I could have improved his mind with my culture, and, well ... my ideas, and all sorts of things might have happened." Only fancy, this was two years after his insult to me, and my challenge would have been a ridiculous anachronism, in spite of all the ingenuity of my letter in disguising and explaining away the anachronism. But, thank God (to this day I thank the Almighty with tears in my eyes) I did not send the letter to him. Cold shivers run down my back when I think of what might have happened if I had sent it. And all at once I revenged myself in the simplest way, by a stroke of genius! A brilliant thought suddenly dawned upon me. Sometimes on holidays I used to stroll along the sunny side of the Nevsky about four o'clock in the afternoon. Though it was hardly a stroll so much as a series of innumerable miseries, humiliations and resentments; but no doubt that was just what I wanted. I used to wriggle along in a most unseemly fashion, like an eel, continually moving aside to make way for generals, for officers of the guards and the hussars, or for ladies. At such minutes there used to be a convulsive twinge at my heart, and I used to feel hot all down my back at the mere thought of the wretchedness of my attire, of the wretchedness and abjectness of my little scurrying figure. This was a regular martyrdom, a continual, intolerable humiliation at the thought, which passed into an incessant and direct sensation, that I was a mere fly in the eyes of all this world, a nasty, disgusting fly--more intelligent, more highly developed, more refined in feeling than any of them, of course--but a fly that was continually making way for everyone, insulted and injured by everyone. Why I inflicted this torture upon myself, why I went to the Nevsky, I don't know. I felt simply drawn there at every possible opportunity. Already then I began to experience a rush of the enjoyment of which I spoke in the first chapter. After my affair with the officer I felt even more drawn there than before: it was on the Nevsky that I met him most frequently, there I could admire him. He, too, went there chiefly on holidays, He, too, turned out of his path for generals and persons of high rank, and he too, wriggled between them like an eel; but people, like me, or even better dressed than me, he simply walked over; he made straight for them as though there was nothing but empty space before him, and never, under any circumstances, turned aside. I gloated over my resentment watching him and ... always resentfully made way for him. It exasperated me that even in the street I could not be on an even footing with him. "Why must you invariably be the first to move aside?" I kept asking myself in hysterical rage, waking up sometimes at three o'clock in the morning. "Why is it you and not he? There's no regulation about it; there's no written law. Let the making way be equal as it usually is when refined people meet; he moves half-way and you move half-way; you pass with mutual respect." But that never happened, and I always moved aside, while he did not even notice my making way for him. And lo and behold a bright idea dawned upon me! "What," I thought, "if I meet him and don't move on one side? What if I don't move aside on purpose, even if I knock up against him? How would that be?" This audacious idea took such a hold on me that it gave me no peace. I was dreaming of it continually, horribly, and I purposely went more frequently to the Nevsky in order to picture more vividly how I should do it when I did do it. I was delighted. This intention seemed to me more and more practical and possible. "Of course I shall not really push him," I thought, already more good- natured in my joy. "I will simply not turn aside, will run up against him, not very violently, but just shouldering each other--just as much as decency permits. I will push against him just as much as he pushes against me." At last I made up my mind completely. But my preparations took a great deal of time. To begin with, when I carried out my plan I should need to be looking rather more decent, and so I had to think of my get-up. "In case of emergency, if, for instance, there were any sort of public scandal (and the public there is of the most RECHERCHE: the Countess walks there; Prince D. walks there; all the literary world is there), I must be well dressed; that inspires respect and of itself puts us on an equal footing in the eyes of the society." With this object I asked for some of my salary in advance, and bought at Tchurkin's a pair of black gloves and a decent hat. Black gloves seemed to me both more dignified and BON TON than the lemon-coloured ones which I had contemplated at first. "The colour is too gaudy, it looks as though one were trying to be conspicuous," and I did not take the lemon-coloured ones. I had got ready long beforehand a good shirt, with white bone studs; my overcoat was the only thing that held me back. The coat in itself was a very good one, it kept me warm; but it was wadded and it had a raccoon collar which was the height of vulgarity. I had to change the collar at any sacrifice, and to have a beaver one like an officer's. For this purpose I began visiting the Gostiny Dvor and after several attempts I pitched upon a piece of cheap German beaver. Though these German beavers soon grow shabby and look wretched, yet at first they look exceedingly well, and I only needed it for the occasion. I asked the price; even so, it was too expensive. After thinking it over thoroughly I decided to sell my raccoon collar. The rest of the money--a considerable sum for me, I decided to borrow from Anton Antonitch Syetotchkin, my immediate superior, an unassuming person, though grave and judicious. He never lent money to anyone, but I had, on entering the service, been specially recommended to him by an important personage who had got me my berth. I was horribly worried. To borrow from Anton Antonitch seemed to me monstrous and shameful. I did not sleep for two or three nights. Indeed, I did not sleep well at that time, I was in a fever; I had a vague sinking at my heart or else a sudden throbbing, throbbing, throbbing! Anton Antonitch was surprised at first, then he frowned, then he reflected, and did after all lend me the money, receiving from me a written authorisation to take from my salary a fortnight later the sum that he had lent me. In this way everything was at last ready. The handsome beaver replaced the mean-looking raccoon, and I began by degrees to get to work. It would never have done to act offhand, at random; the plan had to be carried out skilfully, by degrees. But I must confess that after many efforts I began to despair: we simply could not run into each other. I made every preparation, I was quite determined--it seemed as though we should run into one another directly--and before I knew what I was doing I had stepped aside for him again and he had passed without noticing me. I even prayed as I approached him that God would grant me determination. One time I had made up my mind thoroughly, but it ended in my stumbling and falling at his feet because at the very last instant when I was six inches from him my courage failed me. He very calmly stepped over me, while I flew on one side like a ball. That night I was ill again, feverish and delirious. And suddenly it ended most happily. The night before I had made up my mind not to carry out my fatal plan and to abandon it all, and with that object I went to the Nevsky for the last time, just to see how I would abandon it all. Suddenly, three paces from my enemy, I unexpectedly made up my mind--I closed my eyes, and we ran full tilt, shoulder to shoulder, against one another! I did not budge an inch and passed him on a perfectly equal footing! He did not even look round and pretended not to notice it; but he was only pretending, I am convinced of that. I am convinced of that to this day! Of course, I got the worst of it--he was stronger, but that was not the point. The point was that I had attained my object, I had kept up my dignity, I had not yielded a step, and had put myself publicly on an equal social footing with him. I returned home feeling that I was fully avenged for everything. I was delighted. I was triumphant and sang Italian arias. Of course, I will not describe to you what happened to me three days later; if you have read my first chapter you can guess for yourself. The officer was afterwards transferred; I have not seen him now for fourteen years. What is the dear fellow doing now? Whom is he walking over? II But the period of my dissipation would end and I always felt very sick afterwards. It was followed by remorse--I tried to drive it away; I felt too sick. By degrees, however, I grew used to that too. I grew used to everything, or rather I voluntarily resigned myself to enduring it. But I had a means of escape that reconciled everything--that was to find refuge in "the sublime and the beautiful," in dreams, of course. I was a terrible dreamer, I would dream for three months on end, tucked away in my corner, and you may believe me that at those moments I had no resemblance to the gentleman who, in the perturbation of his chicken heart, put a collar of German beaver on his great-coat. I suddenly became a hero. I would not have admitted my six-foot lieutenant even if he had called on me. I could not even picture him before me then. What were my dreams and how I could satisfy myself with them--it is hard to say now, but at the time I was satisfied with them. Though, indeed, even now, I am to some extent satisfied with them. Dreams were particularly sweet and vivid after a spell of dissipation; they came with remorse and with tears, with curses and transports. There were moments of such positive intoxication, of such happiness, that there was not the faintest trace of irony within me, on my honour. I had faith, hope, love. I believed blindly at such times that by some miracle, by some external circumstance, all this would suddenly open out, expand; that suddenly a vista of suitable activity--beneficent, good, and, above all, READY MADE (what sort of activity I had no idea, but the great thing was that it should be all ready for me)--would rise up before me--and I should come out into the light of day, almost riding a white horse and crowned with laurel. Anything but the foremost place I could not conceive for myself, and for that very reason I quite contentedly occupied the lowest in reality. Either to be a hero or to grovel in the mud--there was nothing between. That was my ruin, for when I was in the mud I comforted myself with the thought that at other times I was a hero, and the hero was a cloak for the mud: for an ordinary man it was shameful to defile himself, but a hero was too lofty to be utterly defiled, and so he might defile himself. It is worth noting that these attacks of the "sublime and the beautiful" visited me even during the period of dissipation and just at the times when I was touching the bottom. They came in separate spurts, as though reminding me of themselves, but did not banish the dissipation by their appearance. On the contrary, they seemed to add a zest to it by contrast, and were only sufficiently present to serve as an appetising sauce. That sauce was made up of contradictions and sufferings, of agonising inward analysis, and all these pangs and pin-pricks gave a certain piquancy, even a significance to my dissipation--in fact, completely answered the purpose of an appetising sauce. There was a certain depth of meaning in it. And I could hardly have resigned myself to the simple, vulgar, direct debauchery of a clerk and have endured all the filthiness of it. What could have allured me about it then and have drawn me at night into the street? No, I had a lofty way of getting out of it all. And what loving-kindness, oh Lord, what loving-kindness I felt at times in those dreams of mine! in those "flights into the sublime and the beautiful"; though it was fantastic love, though it was never applied to anything human in reality, yet there was so much of this love that one did not feel afterwards even the impulse to apply it in reality; that would have been superfluous. Everything, however, passed satisfactorily by a lazy and fascinating transition into the sphere of art, that is, into the beautiful forms of life, lying ready, largely stolen from the poets and novelists and adapted to all sorts of needs and uses. I, for instance, was triumphant over everyone; everyone, of course, was in dust and ashes, and was forced spontaneously to recognise my superiority, and I forgave them all. I was a poet and a grand gentleman, I fell in love; I came in for countless millions and immediately devoted them to humanity, and at the same time I confessed before all the people my shameful deeds, which, of course, were not merely shameful, but had in them much that was "sublime and beautiful" something in the Manfred style. Everyone would kiss me and weep (what idiots they would be if they did not), while I should go barefoot and hungry preaching new ideas and fighting a victorious Austerlitz against the obscurantists. Then the band would play a march, an amnesty would be declared, the Pope would agree to retire from Rome to Brazil; then there would be a ball for the whole of Italy at the Villa Borghese on the shores of Lake Como, Lake Como being for that purpose transferred to the neighbourhood of Rome; then would come a scene in the bushes, and so on, and so on--as though you did not know all about it? You will say that it is vulgar and contemptible to drag all this into public after all the tears and transports which I have myself confessed. But why is it contemptible? Can you imagine that I am ashamed of it all, and that it was stupider than anything in your life, gentlemen? And I can assure you that some of these fancies were by no means badly composed .... It did not all happen on the shores of Lake Como. And yet you are right--it really is vulgar and contemptible. And most contemptible of all it is that now I am attempting to justify myself to you. And even more contemptible than that is my making this remark now. But that's enough, or there will be no end to it; each step will be more contemptible than the last .... I could never stand more than three months of dreaming at a time without feeling an irresistible desire to plunge into society. To plunge into society meant to visit my superior at the office, Anton Antonitch Syetotchkin. He was the only permanent acquaintance I have had in my life, and I wonder at the fact myself now. But I only went to see him when that phase came over me, and when my dreams had reached such a point of bliss that it became essential at once to embrace my fellows and all mankind; and for that purpose I needed, at least, one human being, actually existing. I had to call on Anton Antonitch, however, on Tuesday--his at-home day; so I had always to time my passionate desire to embrace humanity so that it might fall on a Tuesday. This Anton Antonitch lived on the fourth storey in a house in Five Corners, in four low-pitched rooms, one smaller than the other, of a particularly frugal and sallow appearance. He had two daughters and their aunt, who used to pour out the tea. Of the daughters one was thirteen and another fourteen, they both had snub noses, and I was awfully shy of them because they were always whispering and giggling together. The master of the house usually sat in his study on a leather couch in front of the table with some grey-headed gentleman, usually a colleague from our office or some other department. I never saw more than two or three visitors there, always the same. They talked about the excise duty; about business in the senate, about salaries, about promotions, about His Excellency, and the best means of pleasing him, and so on. I had the patience to sit like a fool beside these people for four hours at a stretch, listening to them without knowing what to say to them or venturing to say a word. I became stupefied, several times I felt myself perspiring, I was overcome by a sort of paralysis; but this was pleasant and good for me. On returning home I deferred for a time my desire to embrace all mankind. I had however one other acquaintance of a sort, Simonov, who was an old schoolfellow. I had a number of schoolfellows, indeed, in Petersburg, but I did not associate with them and had even given up nodding to them in the street. I believe I had transferred into the department I was in simply to avoid their company and to cut off all connection with my hateful childhood. Curses on that school and all those terrible years of penal servitude! In short, I parted from my schoolfellows as soon as I got out into the world. There were two or three left to whom I nodded in the street. One of them was Simonov, who had in no way been distinguished at school, was of a quiet and equable disposition; but I discovered in him a certain independence of character and even honesty I don't even suppose that he was particularly stupid. I had at one time spent some rather soulful moments with him, but these had not lasted long and had somehow been suddenly clouded over. He was evidently uncomfortable at these reminiscences, and was, I fancy, always afraid that I might take up the same tone again. I suspected that he had an aversion for me, but still I went on going to see him, not being quite certain of it. And so on one occasion, unable to endure my solitude and knowing that as it was Thursday Anton Antonitch's door would be closed, I thought of Simonov. Climbing up to his fourth storey I was thinking that the man disliked me and that it was a mistake to go and see him. But as it always happened that such reflections impelled me, as though purposely, to put myself into a false position, I went in. It was almost a year since I had last seen Simonov. III I found two of my old schoolfellows with him. They seemed to be discussing an important matter. All of them took scarcely any notice of my entrance, which was strange, for I had not met them for years. Evidently they looked upon me as something on the level of a common fly. I had not been treated like that even at school, though they all hated me. I knew, of course, that they must despise me now for my lack of success in the service, and for my having let myself sink so low, going about badly dressed and so on--which seemed to them a sign of my incapacity and insignificance. But I had not expected such contempt. Simonov was positively surprised at my turning up. Even in old days he had always seemed surprised at my coming. All this disconcerted me: I sat down, feeling rather miserable, and began listening to what they were saying. They were engaged in warm and earnest conversation about a farewell dinner which they wanted to arrange for the next day to a comrade of theirs called Zverkov, an officer in the army, who was going away to a distant province. This Zverkov had been all the time at school with me too. I had begun to hate him particularly in the upper forms. In the lower forms he had simply been a pretty, playful boy whom everybody liked. I had hated him, however, even in the lower forms, just because he was a pretty and playful boy. He was always bad at his lessons and got worse and worse as he went on; however, he left with a good certificate, as he had powerful interests. During his last year at school he came in for an estate of two hundred serfs, and as almost all of us were poor he took up a swaggering tone among us. He was vulgar in the extreme, but at the same time he was a good-natured fellow, even in his swaggering. In spite of superficial, fantastic and sham notions of honour and dignity, all but very few of us positively grovelled before Zverkov, and the more so the more he swaggered. And it was not from any interested motive that they grovelled, but simply because he had been favoured by the gifts of nature. Moreover, it was, as it were, an accepted idea among us that Zverkov was a specialist in regard to tact and the social graces. This last fact particularly infuriated me. I hated the abrupt self-confident tone of his voice, his admiration of his own witticisms, which were often frightfully stupid, though he was bold in his language; I hated his handsome, but stupid face (for which I would, however, have gladly exchanged my intelligent one), and the free-and-easy military manners in fashion in the "'forties." I hated the way in which he used to talk of his future conquests of women (he did not venture to begin his attack upon women until he had the epaulettes of an officer, and was looking forward to them with impatience), and boasted of the duels he would constantly be fighting. I remember how I, invariably so taciturn, suddenly fastened upon Zverkov, when one day talking at a leisure moment with his schoolfellows of his future relations with the fair sex, and growing as sportive as a puppy in the sun, he all at once declared that he would not leave a single village girl on his estate unnoticed, that that was his DROIT DE SEIGNEUR, and that if the peasants dared to protest he would have them all flogged and double the tax on them, the bearded rascals. Our servile rabble applauded, but I attacked him, not from compassion for the girls and their fathers, but simply because they were applauding such an insect. I got the better of him on that occasion, but though Zverkov was stupid he was lively and impudent, and so laughed it off, and in such a way that my victory was not really complete; the laugh was on his side. He got the better of me on several occasions afterwards, but without malice, jestingly, casually. I remained angrily and contemptuously silent and would not answer him. When we left school he made advances to me; I did not rebuff them, for I was flattered, but we soon parted and quite naturally. Afterwards I heard of his barrack-room success as a lieutenant, and of the fast life he was leading. Then there came other rumours--of his successes in the service. By then he had taken to cutting me in the street, and I suspected that he was afraid of compromising himself by greeting a personage as insignificant as me. I saw him once in the theatre, in the third tier of boxes. By then he was wearing shoulder-straps. He was twisting and twirling about, ingratiating himself with the daughters of an ancient General. In three years he had gone off considerably, though he was still rather handsome and adroit. One could see that by the time he was thirty he would be corpulent. So it was to this Zverkov that my schoolfellows were going to give a dinner on his departure. They had kept up with him for those three years, though privately they did not consider themselves on an equal footing with him, I am convinced of that. Of Simonov's two visitors, one was Ferfitchkin, a Russianised German --a little fellow with the face of a monkey, a blockhead who was always deriding everyone, a very bitter enemy of mine from our days in the lower forms--a vulgar, impudent, swaggering fellow, who affected a most sensitive feeling of personal honour, though, of course, he was a wretched little coward at heart. He was one of those worshippers of Zverkov who made up to the latter from interested motives, and often borrowed money from him. Simonov's other visitor, Trudolyubov, was a person in no way remarkable--a tall young fellow, in the army, with a cold face, fairly honest, though he worshipped success of every sort, and was only capable of thinking of promotion. He was some sort of distant relation of Zverkov's, and this, foolish as it seems, gave him a certain importance among us. He always thought me of no consequence whatever; his behaviour to me, though not quite courteous, was tolerable. "Well, with seven roubles each," said Trudolyubov, "twenty-one roubles between the three of us, we ought to be able to get a good dinner. Zverkov, of course, won't pay." "Of course not, since we are inviting him," Simonov decided. "Can you imagine," Ferfitchkin interrupted hotly and conceitedly, like some insolent flunkey boasting of his master the General's decorations, "can you imagine that Zverkov will let us pay alone? He will accept from delicacy, but he will order half a dozen bottles of champagne." "Do we want half a dozen for the four of us?" observed Trudolyubov, taking notice only of the half dozen. "So the three of us, with Zverkov for the fourth, twenty-one roubles, at the Hotel de Paris at five o'clock tomorrow," Simonov, who had been asked to make the arrangements, concluded finally. "How twenty-one roubles?" I asked in some agitation, with a show of being offended; "if you count me it will not be twenty-one, but twenty-eight roubles." It seemed to me that to invite myself so suddenly and unexpectedly would be positively graceful, and that they would all be conquered at once and would look at me with respect. "Do you want to join, too?" Simonov observed, with no appearance of pleasure, seeming to avoid looking at me. He knew me through and through. It infuriated me that he knew me so thoroughly. "Why not? I am an old schoolfellow of his, too, I believe, and I must own I feel hurt that you have left me out," I said, boiling over again. "And where were we to find you?" Ferfitchkin put in roughly. "You never were on good terms with Zverkov," Trudolyubov added, frowning. But I had already clutched at the idea and would not give it up. "It seems to me that no one has a right to form an opinion upon that," I retorted in a shaking voice, as though something tremendous had happened. "Perhaps that is just my reason for wishing it now, that I have not always been on good terms with him." "Oh, there's no making you out ... with these refinements," Trudolyubov jeered. "We'll put your name down," Simonov decided, addressing me. "Tomorrow at five-o'clock at the Hotel de Paris." "What about the money?" Ferfitchkin began in an undertone, indicating me to Simonov, but he broke off, for even Simonov was embarrassed. "That will do," said Trudolyubov, getting up. "If he wants to come so much, let him." "But it's a private thing, between us friends," Ferfitchkin said crossly, as he, too, picked up his hat. "It's not an official gathering." "We do not want at all, perhaps ..." They went away. Ferfitchkin did not greet me in any way as he went out, Trudolyubov barely nodded. Simonov, with whom I was left TETE-A-TETE, was in a state of vexation and perplexity, and looked at me queerly. He did not sit down and did not ask me to. "H'm ... yes ... tomorrow, then. Will you pay your subscription now? I just ask so as to know," he muttered in embarrassment. I flushed crimson, as I did so I remembered that I had owed Simonov fifteen roubles for ages--which I had, indeed, never forgotten, though I had not paid it. "You will understand, Simonov, that I could have no idea when I came here .... I am very much vexed that I have forgotten ...." "All right, all right, that doesn't matter. You can pay tomorrow after the dinner. I simply wanted to know .... Please don't ..." He broke off and began pacing the room still more vexed. As he walked he began to stamp with his heels. "Am I keeping you?" I asked, after two minutes of silence. "Oh!" he said, starting, "that is--to be truthful--yes. I have to go and see someone ... not far from here," he added in an apologetic voice, somewhat abashed. "My goodness, why didn't you say so?" I cried, seizing my cap, with an astonishingly free-and-easy air, which was the last thing I should have expected of myself. "It's close by ... not two paces away," Simonov repeated, accompanying me to the front door with a fussy air which did not suit him at all. "So five o'clock, punctually, tomorrow," he called down the stairs after me. He was very glad to get rid of me. I was in a fury. "What possessed me, what possessed me to force myself upon them?" I wondered, grinding my teeth as I strode along the street, "for a scoundrel, a pig like that Zverkov! Of course I had better not go; of course, I must just snap my fingers at them. I am not bound in any way. I'll send Simonov a note by tomorrow's post ...." But what made me furious was that I knew for certain that I should go, that I should make a point of going; and the more tactless, the more unseemly my going would be, the more certainly I would go. And there was a positive obstacle to my going: I had no money. All I had was nine roubles, I had to give seven of that to my servant, Apollon, for his monthly wages. That was all I paid him--he had to keep himself. Not to pay him was impossible, considering his character. But I will talk about that fellow, about that plague of mine, another time. However, I knew I should go and should not pay him his wages. That night I had the most hideous dreams. No wonder; all the evening I had been oppressed by memories of my miserable days at school, and I could not shake them off. I was sent to the school by distant relations, upon whom I was dependent and of whom I have heard nothing since-- they sent me there a forlorn, silent boy, already crushed by their reproaches, already troubled by doubt, and looking with savage distrust at everyone. My schoolfellows met me with spiteful and merciless jibes because I was not like any of them. But I could not endure their taunts; I could not give in to them with the ignoble readiness with which they gave in to one another. I hated them from the first, and shut myself away from everyone in timid, wounded and disproportionate pride. Their coarseness revolted me. They laughed cynically at my face, at my clumsy figure; and yet what stupid faces they had themselves. In our school the boys' faces seemed in a special way to degenerate and grow stupider. How many fine-looking boys came to us! In a few years they became repulsive. Even at sixteen I wondered at them morosely; even then I was struck by the pettiness of their thoughts, the stupidity of their pursuits, their games, their conversations. They had no understanding of such essential things, they took no interest in such striking, impressive subjects, that I could not help considering them inferior to myself. It was not wounded vanity that drove me to it, and for God's sake do not thrust upon me your hackneyed remarks, repeated to nausea, that "I was only a dreamer," while they even then had an understanding of life. They understood nothing, they had no idea of real life, and I swear that that was what made me most indignant with them. On the contrary, the most obvious, striking reality they accepted with fantastic stupidity and even at that time were accustomed to respect success. Everything that was just, but oppressed and looked down upon, they laughed at heartlessly and shamefully. They took rank for intelligence; even at sixteen they were already talking about a snug berth. Of course, a great deal of it was due to their stupidity, to the bad examples with which they had always been surrounded in their childhood and boyhood. They were monstrously depraved. Of course a great deal of that, too, was superficial and an assumption of cynicism; of course there were glimpses of youth and freshness even in their depravity; but even that freshness was not attractive, and showed itself in a certain rakishness. I hated them horribly, though perhaps I was worse than any of them. They repaid me in the same way, and did not conceal their aversion for me. But by then I did not desire their affection: on the contrary, I continually longed for their humiliation. To escape from their derision I purposely began to make all the progress I could with my studies and forced my way to the very top. This impressed them. Moreover, they all began by degrees to grasp that I had already read books none of them could read, and understood things (not forming part of our school curriculum) of which they had not even heard. They took a savage and sarcastic view of it, but were morally impressed, especially as the teachers began to notice me on those grounds. The mockery ceased, but the hostility remained, and cold and strained relations became permanent between us. In the end I could not put up with it: with years a craving for society, for friends, developed in me. I attempted to get on friendly terms with some of my schoolfellows; but somehow or other my intimacy with them was always strained and soon ended of itself. Once, indeed, I did have a friend. But I was already a tyrant at heart; I wanted to exercise unbounded sway over him; I tried to instil into him a contempt for his surroundings; I required of him a disdainful and complete break with those surroundings. I frightened him with my passionate affection; I reduced him to tears, to hysterics. He was a simple and devoted soul; but when he devoted himself to me entirely I began to hate him immediately and repulsed him--as though all I needed him for was to win a victory over him, to subjugate him and nothing else. But I could not subjugate all of them; my friend was not at all like them either, he was, in fact, a rare exception. The first thing I did on leaving school was to give up the special job for which I had been destined so as to break all ties, to curse my past and shake the dust from off my feet .... And goodness knows why, after all that, I should go trudging off to Simonov's! Early next morning I roused myself and jumped out of bed with excitement, as though it were all about to happen at once. But I believed that some radical change in my life was coming, and would inevitably come that day. Owing to its rarity, perhaps, any external event, however trivial, always made me feel as though some radical change in my life were at hand. I went to the office, however, as usual, but sneaked away home two hours earlier to get ready. The great thing, I thought, is not to be the first to arrive, or they will think I am overjoyed at coming. But there were thousands of such great points to consider, and they all agitated and overwhelmed me. I polished my boots a second time with my own hands; nothing in the world would have induced Apollon to clean them twice a day, as he considered that it was more than his duties required of him. I stole the brushes to clean them from the passage, being careful he should not detect it, for fear of his contempt. Then I minutely examined my clothes and thought that everything looked old, worn and threadbare. I had let myself get too slovenly. My uniform, perhaps, was tidy, but I could not go out to dinner in my uniform. The worst of it was that on the knee of my trousers was a big yellow stain. I had a foreboding that that stain would deprive me of nine-tenths of my personal dignity. I knew, too, that it was very poor to think so. "But this is no time for thinking: now I am in for the real thing," I thought, and my heart sank. I knew, too, perfectly well even then, that I was monstrously exaggerating the facts. But how could I help it? I could not control myself and was already shaking with fever. With despair I pictured to myself how coldly and disdainfully that "scoundrel" Zverkov would meet me; with what dull-witted, invincible contempt the blockhead Trudolyubov would look at me; with what impudent rudeness the insect Ferfitchkin would snigger at me in order to curry favour with Zverkov; how completely Simonov would take it all in, and how he would despise me for the abjectness of my vanity and lack of spirit--and, worst of all, how paltry, UNLITERARY, commonplace it would all be. Of course, the best thing would be not to go at all. But that was most impossible of all: if I feel impelled to do anything, I seem to be pitchforked into it. I should have jeered at myself ever afterwards: "So you funked it, you funked it, you funked the REAL THING!" On the contrary, I passionately longed to show all that "rabble" that I was by no means such a spiritless creature as I seemed to myself. What is more, even in the acutest paroxysm of this cowardly fever, I dreamed of getting the upper hand, of dominating them, carrying them away, making them like me--if only for my "elevation of thought and unmistakable wit." They would abandon Zverkov, he would sit on one side, silent and ashamed, while I should crush him. Then, perhaps, we would be reconciled and drink to our everlasting friendship; but what was most bitter and humiliating for me was that I knew even then, knew fully and for certain, that I needed nothing of all this really, that I did not really want to crush, to subdue, to attract them, and that I did not care a straw really for the result, even if I did achieve it. Oh, how I prayed for the day to pass quickly! In unutterable anguish I went to the window, opened the movable pane and looked out into the troubled darkness of the thickly falling wet snow. At last my wretched little clock hissed out five. I seized my hat and, trying not to look at Apollon, who had been all day expecting his month's wages, but in his foolishness was unwilling to be the first to speak about it, I slipped between him and the door and, jumping into a high-class sledge, on which I spent my last half rouble, I drove up in grand style to the Hotel de Paris. IV I had been certain the day before that I should be the first to arrive. But it was not a question of being the first to arrive. Not only were they not there, but I had difficulty in finding our room. The table was not laid even. What did it mean? After a good many questions I elicited from the waiters that the dinner had been ordered not for five, but for six o'clock. This was confirmed at the buffet too. I felt really ashamed to go on questioning them. It was only twenty-five minutes past five. If they changed the dinner hour they ought at least to have let me know--that is what the post is for, and not to have put me in an absurd position in my own eyes and ... and even before the waiters. I sat down; the servant began laying the table; I felt even more humiliated when he was present. Towards six o'clock they brought in candles, though there were lamps burning in the room. It had not occurred to the waiter, however, to bring them in at once when I arrived. In the next room two gloomy, angry- looking persons were eating their dinners in silence at two different tables. There was a great deal of noise, even shouting, in a room further away; one could hear the laughter of a crowd of people, and nasty little shrieks in French: there were ladies at the dinner. It was sickening, in fact. I rarely passed more unpleasant moments, so much so that when they did arrive all together punctually at six I was overjoyed to see them, as though they were my deliverers, and even forgot that it was incumbent upon me to show resentment. Zverkov walked in at the head of them; evidently he was the leading spirit. He and all of them were laughing; but, seeing me, Zverkov drew himself up a little, walked up to me deliberately with a slight, rather jaunty bend from the waist. He shook hands with me in a friendly, but not over- friendly, fashion, with a sort of circumspect courtesy like that of a General, as though in giving me his hand he were warding off something. I had imagined, on the contrary, that on coming in he would at once break into his habitual thin, shrill laugh and fall to making his insipid jokes and witticisms. I had been preparing for them ever since the previous day, but I had not expected such condescension, such high-official courtesy. So, then, he felt himself ineffably superior to me in every respect! If he only meant to insult me by that high-official tone, it would not matter, I thought--I could pay him back for it one way or another. But what if, in reality, without the least desire to be offensive, that sheepshead had a notion in earnest that he was superior to me and could only look at me in a patronising way? The very supposition made me gasp. "I was surprised to hear of your desire to join us," he began, lisping and drawling, which was something new. "You and I seem to have seen nothing of one another. You fight shy of us. You shouldn't. We are not such terrible people as you think. Well, anyway, I am glad to renew our acquaintance." And he turned carelessly to put down his hat on the window. "Have you been waiting long?" Trudolyubov inquired. "I arrived at five o'clock as you told me yesterday," I answered aloud, with an irritability that threatened an explosion. "Didn't you let him know that we had changed the hour?" said Trudolyubov to Simonov. "No, I didn't. I forgot," the latter replied, with no sign of regret, and without even apologising to me he went off to order the HORS D'OEUVRE. "So you've been here a whole hour? Oh, poor fellow!" Zverkov cried ironically, for to his notions this was bound to be extremely funny. That rascal Ferfitchkin followed with his nasty little snigger like a puppy yapping. My position struck him, too, as exquisitely ludicrous and embarrassing. "It isn't funny at all!" I cried to Ferfitchkin, more and more irritated. "It wasn't my fault, but other people's. They neglected to let me know. It was ... it was ... it was simply absurd." "It's not only absurd, but something else as well," muttered Trudolyubov, naively taking my part. "You are not hard enough upon it. It was simply rudeness--unintentional, of course. And how could Simonov ... h'm!" "If a trick like that had been played on me," observed Ferfitchkin, "I should ..." "But you should have ordered something for yourself," Zverkov interrupted, "or simply asked for dinner without waiting for us." "You will allow that I might have done that without your permission," I rapped out. "If I waited, it was ..." "Let us sit down, gentlemen," cried Simonov, coming in. "Everything is ready; I can answer for the champagne; it is capitally frozen .... You see, I did not know your address, where was I to look for you?" he suddenly turned to me, but again he seemed to avoid looking at me. Evidently he had something against me. It must have been what happened yesterday. All sat down; I did the same. It was a round table. Trudolyubov was on my left, Simonov on my right, Zverkov was sitting opposite, Ferfitchkin next to him, between him and Trudolyubov. "Tell me, are you ... in a government office?" Zverkov went on attending to me. Seeing that I was embarrassed he seriously thought that he ought to be friendly to me, and, so to speak, cheer me up. "Does he want me to throw a bottle at his head?" I thought, in a fury. In my novel surroundings I was unnaturally ready to be irritated. "In the N--- office," I answered jerkily, with my eyes on my plate. "And ha-ave you a go-od berth? I say, what ma-a-de you leave your original job?" "What ma-a-de me was that I wanted to leave my original job," I drawled more than he, hardly able to control myself. Ferfitchkin went off into a guffaw. Simonov looked at me ironically. Trudolyubov left off eating and began looking at me with curiosity. Zverkov winced, but he tried not to notice it. "And the remuneration?" "What remuneration?" "I mean, your sa-a-lary?" "Why are you cross-examining me?" However, I told him at once what my salary was. I turned horribly red. "It is not very handsome," Zverkov observed majestically. "Yes, you can't afford to dine at cafes on that," Ferfitchkin added insolently. "To my thinking it's very poor," Trudolyubov observed gravely. "And how thin you have grown! How you have changed!" added Zverkov, with a shade of venom in his voice, scanning me and my attire with a sort of insolent compassion. "Oh, spare his blushes," cried Ferfitchkin, sniggering. "My dear sir, allow me to tell you I am not blushing," I broke out at last; "do you hear? I am dining here, at this cafe, at my own expense, not at other people's--note that, Mr. Ferfitchkin." "Wha-at? Isn't every one here dining at his own expense? You would seem to be ..." Ferfitchkin flew out at me, turning as red as a lobster, and looking me in the face with fury. "Tha-at," I answered, feeling I had gone too far, "and I imagine it would be better to talk of something more intelligent." "You intend to show off your intelligence, I suppose?" "Don't disturb yourself, that would be quite out of place here." "Why are you clacking away like that, my good sir, eh? Have you gone out of your wits in your office?" "Enough, gentlemen, enough!" Zverkov cried, authoritatively. "How stupid it is!" muttered Simonov. "It really is stupid. We have met here, a company of friends, for a farewell dinner to a comrade and you carry on an altercation," said Trudolyubov, rudely addressing himself to me alone. "You invited yourself to join us, so don't disturb the general harmony." "Enough, enough!" cried Zverkov. "Give over, gentlemen, it's out of place. Better let me tell you how I nearly got married the day before yesterday ...." And then followed a burlesque narrative of how this gentleman had almost been married two days before. There was not a word about the marriage, however, but the story was adorned with generals, colonels and kammer-junkers, while Zverkov almost took the lead among them. It was greeted with approving laughter; Ferfitchkin positively squealed. No one paid any attention to me, and I sat crushed and humiliated. "Good Heavens, these are not the people for me!" I thought. "And what a fool I have made of myself before them! I let Ferfitchkin go too far, though. The brutes imagine they are doing me an honour in letting me sit down with them. They don't understand that it's an honour to them and not to me! I've grown thinner! My clothes! Oh, damn my trousers! Zverkov noticed the yellow stain on the knee as soon as he came in .... But what's the use! I must get up at once, this very minute, take my hat and simply go without a word ... with contempt! And tomorrow I can send a challenge. The scoundrels! As though I cared about the seven roubles. They may think .... Damn it! I don't care about the seven roubles. I'll go this minute!" Of course I remained. I drank sherry and Lafitte by the glassful in my discomfiture. Being unaccustomed to it, I was quickly affected. My annoyance increased as the wine went to my head. I longed all at once to insult them all in a most flagrant manner and then go away. To seize the moment and show what I could do, so that they would say, "He's clever, though he is absurd," and ... and ... in fact, damn them all! I scanned them all insolently with my drowsy eyes. But they seemed to have forgotten me altogether. They were noisy, vociferous, cheerful. Zverkov was talking all the time. I began listening. Zverkov was talking of some exuberant lady whom he had at last led on to declaring her love (of course, he was lying like a horse), and how he had been helped in this affair by an intimate friend of his, a Prince Kolya, an officer in the hussars, who had three thousand serfs. "And yet this Kolya, who has three thousand serfs, has not put in an appearance here tonight to see you off," I cut in suddenly. For one minute every one was silent. "You are drunk already." Trudolyubov deigned to notice me at last, glancing contemptuously in my direction. Zverkov, without a word, examined me as though I were an insect. I dropped my eyes. Simonov made haste to fill up the glasses with champagne. Trudolyubov raised his glass, as did everyone else but me. "Your health and good luck on the journey!" he cried to Zverkov. "To old times, to our future, hurrah!" They all tossed off their glasses, and crowded round Zverkov to kiss him. I did not move; my full glass stood untouched before me. "Why, aren't you going to drink it?" roared Trudolyubov, losing patience and turning menacingly to me. "I want to make a speech separately, on my own account ... and then I'll drink it, Mr. Trudolyubov." "Spiteful brute!" muttered Simonov. I drew myself up in my chair and feverishly seized my glass, prepared for something extraordinary, though I did not know myself precisely what I was going to say. "SILENCE!" cried Ferfitchkin. "Now for a display of wit!" Zverkov waited very gravely, knowing what was coming. "Mr. Lieutenant Zverkov," I began, "let me tell you that I hate phrases, phrasemongers and men in corsets ... that's the first point, and there is a second one to follow it." There was a general stir. "The second point is: I hate ribaldry and ribald talkers. Especially ribald talkers! The third point: I love justice, truth and honesty." I went on almost mechanically, for I was beginning to shiver with horror myself and had no idea how I came to be talking like this. "I love thought, Monsieur Zverkov; I love true comradeship, on an equal footing and not ... H'm ... I love ... But, however, why not? I will drink your health, too, Mr. Zverkov. Seduce the Circassian girls, shoot the enemies of the fatherland and ... and ... to your health, Monsieur Zverkov!" Zverkov got up from his seat, bowed to me and said: "I am very much obliged to you." He was frightfully offended and turned pale. "Damn the fellow!" roared Trudolyubov, bringing his fist down on the table. "Well, he wants a punch in the face for that," squealed Ferfitchkin. "We ought to turn him out," muttered Simonov. "Not a word, gentlemen, not a movement!" cried Zverkov solemnly, checking the general indignation. "I thank you all, but I can show him for myself how much value I attach to his words." "Mr. Ferfitchkin, you will give me satisfaction tomorrow for your words just now!" I said aloud, turning with dignity to Ferfitchkin. "A duel, you mean? Certainly," he answered. But probably I was so ridiculous as I challenged him and it was so out of keeping with my appearance that everyone including Ferfitchkin was prostrate with laughter. "Yes, let him alone, of course! He is quite drunk," Trudolyubov said with disgust. "I shall never forgive myself for letting him join us," Simonov muttered again. "Now is the time to throw a bottle at their heads," I thought to myself. I picked up the bottle ... and filled my glass .... "No, I'd better sit on to the end," I went on thinking; "you would be pleased, my friends, if I went away. Nothing will induce me to go. I'll go on sitting here and drinking to the end, on purpose, as a sign that I don't think you of the slightest consequence. I will go on sitting and drinking, because this is a public-house and I paid my entrance money. I'll sit here and drink, for I look upon you as so many pawns, as inanimate pawns. I'll sit here and drink ... and sing if I want to, yes, sing, for I have the right to ... to sing ... H'm!" But I did not sing. I simply tried not to look at any of them. I assumed most unconcerned attitudes and waited with impatience for them to speak FIRST. But alas, they did not address me! And oh, how I wished, how I wished at that moment to be reconciled to them! It struck eight, at last nine. They moved from the table to the sofa. Zverkov stretched himself on a lounge and put one foot on a round table. Wine was brought there. He did, as a fact, order three bottles on his own account. I, of course, was not invited to join them. They all sat round him on the sofa. They listened to him, almost with reverence. It was evident that they were fond of him. "What for? What for?" I wondered. From time to time they were moved to drunken enthusiasm and kissed each other. They talked of the Caucasus, of the nature of true passion, of snug berths in the service, of the income of an hussar called Podharzhevsky, whom none of them knew personally, and rejoiced in the largeness of it, of the extraordinary grace and beauty of a Princess D., whom none of them had ever seen; then it came to Shakespeare's being immortal. I smiled contemptuously and walked up and down the other side of the room, opposite the sofa, from the table to the stove and back again. I tried my very utmost to show them that I could do without them, and yet I purposely made a noise with my boots, thumping with my heels. But it was all in vain. They paid no attention. I had the patience to walk up and down in front of them from eight o'clock till eleven, in the same place, from the table to the stove and back again. "I walk up and down to please myself and no one can prevent me." The waiter who came into the room stopped, from time to time, to look at me. I was somewhat giddy from turning round so often; at moments it seemed to me that I was in delirium. During those three hours I was three times soaked with sweat and dry again. At times, with an intense, acute pang I was stabbed to the heart by the thought that ten years, twenty years, forty years would pass, and that even in forty years I would remember with loathing and humiliation those filthiest, most ludicrous, and most awful moments of my life. No one could have gone out of his way to degrade himself more shamelessly, and I fully realised it, fully, and yet I went on pacing up and down from the table to the stove. "Oh, if you only knew what thoughts and feelings I am capable of, how cultured I am!" I thought at moments, mentally addressing the sofa on which my enemies were sitting. But my enemies behaved as though I were not in the room. Once--only once-- they turned towards me, just when Zverkov was talking about Shakespeare, and I suddenly gave a contemptuous laugh. I laughed in such an affected and disgusting way that they all at once broke off their conversation, and silently and gravely for two minutes watched me walking up and down from the table to the stove, TAKING NO NOTICE OF THEM. But nothing came of it: they said nothing, and two minutes later they ceased to notice me again. It struck eleven. "Friends," cried Zverkov getting up from the sofa, "let us all be off now, THERE!" "Of course, of course," the others assented. I turned sharply to Zverkov. I was so harassed, so exhausted, that I would have cut my throat to put an end to it. I was in a fever; my hair, soaked with perspiration, stuck to my forehead and temples. "Zverkov, I beg your pardon," I said abruptly and resolutely. "Ferfitchkin, yours too, and everyone's, everyone's: I have insulted you all!" "Aha! A duel is not in your line, old man," Ferfitchkin hissed venomously. It sent a sharp pang to my heart. "No, it's not the duel I am afraid of, Ferfitchkin! I am ready to fight you tomorrow, after we are reconciled. I insist upon it, in fact, and you cannot refuse. I want to show you that I am not afraid of a duel. You shall fire first and I shall fire into the air." "He is comforting himself," said Simonov. "He's simply raving," said Trudolyubov. "But let us pass. Why are you barring our way? What do you want?" Zverkov answered disdainfully. They were all flushed, their eyes were bright: they had been drinking heavily. "I ask for your friendship, Zverkov; I insulted you, but ..." "Insulted? YOU insulted ME? Understand, sir, that you never, under any circumstances, could possibly insult ME." "And that's enough for you. Out of the way!" concluded Trudolyubov. "Olympia is mine, friends, that's agreed!" cried Zverkov. "We won't dispute your right, we won't dispute your right," the others answered, laughing. I stood as though spat upon. The party went noisily out of the room. Trudolyubov struck up some stupid song. Simonov remained behind for a moment to tip the waiters. I suddenly went up to him. "Simonov! give me six roubles!" I said, with desperate resolution. He looked at me in extreme amazement, with vacant eyes. He, too, was drunk. "You don't mean you are coming with us?" "Yes." "I've no money," he snapped out, and with a scornful laugh he went out of the room. I clutched at his overcoat. It was a nightmare. "Simonov, I saw you had money. Why do you refuse me? Am I a scoundrel? Beware of refusing me: if you knew, if you knew why I am asking! My whole future, my whole plans depend upon it!" Simonov pulled out the money and almost flung it at me. "Take it, if you have no sense of shame!" he pronounced pitilessly, and ran to overtake them. I was left for a moment alone. Disorder, the remains of dinner, a broken wine-glass on the floor, spilt wine, cigarette ends, fumes of drink and delirium in my brain, an agonising misery in my heart and finally the waiter, who had seen and heard all and was looking inquisitively into my face. "I am going there!" I cried. "Either they shall all go down on their knees to beg for my friendship, or I will give Zverkov a slap in the face!" V "So this is it, this is it at last--contact with real life," I muttered as I ran headlong downstairs. "This is very different from the Pope's leaving Rome and going to Brazil, very different from the ball on Lake Como!" "You are a scoundrel," a thought flashed through my mind, "if you laugh at this now." "No matter!" I cried, answering myself. "Now everything is lost!" There was no trace to be seen of them, but that made no difference--I knew where they had gone. At the steps was standing a solitary night sledge-driver in a rough peasant coat, powdered over with the still falling, wet, and as it were warm, snow. It was hot and steamy. The little shaggy piebald horse was also covered with snow and coughing, I remember that very well. I made a rush for the roughly made sledge; but as soon as I raised my foot to get into it, the recollection of how Simonov had just given me six roubles seemed to double me up and I tumbled into the sledge like a sack. "No, I must do a great deal to make up for all that," I cried. "But I will make up for it or perish on the spot this very night. Start!" We set off. There was a perfect whirl in my head. "They won't go down on their knees to beg for my friendship. That is a mirage, cheap mirage, revolting, romantic and fantastical--that's another ball on Lake Como. And so I am bound to slap Zverkov's face! It is my duty to. And so it is settled; I am flying to give him a slap in the face. Hurry up!" The driver tugged at the reins. "As soon as I go in I'll give it him. Ought I before giving him the slap to say a few words by way of preface? No. I'll simply go in and give it him. They will all be sitting in the drawing-room, and he with Olympia on the sofa. That damned Olympia! She laughed at my looks on one occasion and refused me. I'll pull Olympia's hair, pull Zverkov's ears! No, better one ear, and pull him by it round the room. Maybe they will all begin beating me and will kick me out. That's most likely, indeed. No matter! Anyway, I shall first slap him; the initiative will be mine; and by the laws of honour that is everything: he will be branded and cannot wipe off the slap by any blows, by nothing but a duel. He will be forced to fight. And let them beat me now. Let them, the ungrateful wretches! Trudolyubov will beat me hardest, he is so strong; Ferfitchkin will be sure to catch hold sideways and tug at my hair. But no matter, no matter! That's what I am going for. The blockheads will be forced at last to see the tragedy of it all! When they drag me to the door I shall call out to them that in reality they are not worth my little finger. Get on, driver, get on!" I cried to the driver. He started and flicked his whip, I shouted so savagely. "We shall fight at daybreak, that's a settled thing. I've done with the office. Ferfitchkin made a joke about it just now. But where can I get pistols? Nonsense! I'll get my salary in advance and buy them. And powder, and bullets? That's the second's business. And how can it all be done by daybreak? and where am I to get a second? I have no friends. Nonsense!" I cried, lashing myself up more and more. "It's of no consequence! The first person I meet in the street is bound to be my second, just as he would be bound to pull a drowning man out of water. The most eccentric things may happen. Even if I were to ask the director himself to be my second tomorrow, he would be bound to consent, if only from a feeling of chivalry, and to keep the secret! Anton Antonitch ...." The fact is, that at that very minute the disgusting absurdity of my plan and the other side of the question was clearer and more vivid to my imagination than it could be to anyone on earth. But .... "Get on, driver, get on, you rascal, get on!" "Ugh, sir!" said the son of toil. Cold shivers suddenly ran down me. Wouldn't it be better ... to go straight home? My God, my God! Why did I invite myself to this dinner yesterday? But no, it's impossible. And my walking up and down for three hours from the table to the stove? No, they, they and no one else must pay for my walking up and down! They must wipe out this dishonour! Drive on! And what if they give me into custody? They won't dare! They'll be afraid of the scandal. And what if Zverkov is so contemptuous that he refuses to fight a duel? He is sure to; but in that case I'll show them ... I will turn up at the posting station when he's setting off tomorrow, I'll catch him by the leg, I'll pull off his coat when he gets into the carriage. I'll get my teeth into his hand, I'll bite him. "See what lengths you can drive a desperate man to!" He may hit me on the head and they may belabour me from behind. I will shout to the assembled multitude: "Look at this young puppy who is driving off to captivate the Circassian girls after letting me spit in his face!" Of course, after that everything will be over! The office will have vanished off the face of the earth. I shall be arrested, I shall be tried, I shall be dismissed from the service, thrown in prison, sent to Siberia. Never mind! In fifteen years when they let me out of prison I will trudge off to him, a beggar, in rags. I shall find him in some provincial town. He will be married and happy. He will have a grown-up daughter .... I shall say to him: "Look, monster, at my hollow cheeks and my rags! I've lost everything--my career, my happiness, art, science, THE WOMAN I LOVED, and all through you. Here are pistols. I have come to discharge my pistol and ... and I ... forgive you. Then I shall fire into the air and he will hear nothing more of me ...." I was actually on the point of tears, though I knew perfectly well at that moment that all this was out of Pushkin's SILVIO and Lermontov's MASQUERADE. And all at once I felt horribly ashamed, so ashamed that I stopped the horse, got out of the sledge, and stood still in the snow in the middle of the street. The driver gazed at me, sighing and astonished. What was I to do? I could not go on there--it was evidently stupid, and I could not leave things as they were, because that would seem as though ... Heavens, how could I leave things! And after such insults! "No!" I cried, throwing myself into the sledge again. "It is ordained! It is fate! Drive on, drive on!" And in my impatience I punched the sledge-driver on the back of the neck. "What are you up to? What are you hitting me for?" the peasant shouted, but he whipped up his nag so that it began kicking. The wet snow was falling in big flakes; I unbuttoned myself, regardless of it. I forgot everything else, for I had finally decided on the slap, and felt with horror that it was going to happen NOW, AT ONCE, and that NO FORCE COULD STOP IT. The deserted street lamps gleamed sullenly in the snowy darkness like torches at a funeral. The snow drifted under my great-coat, under my coat, under my cravat, and melted there. I did not wrap myself up--all was lost, anyway. At last we arrived. I jumped out, almost unconscious, ran up the steps and began knocking and kicking at the door. I felt fearfully weak, particularly in my legs and knees. The door was opened quickly as though they knew I was coming. As a fact, Simonov had warned them that perhaps another gentleman would arrive, and this was a place in which one had to give notice and to observe certain precautions. It was one of those "millinery establishments" which were abolished by the police a good time ago. By day it really was a shop; but at night, if one had an introduction, one might visit it for other purposes. I walked rapidly through the dark shop into the familiar drawing- room, where there was only one candle burning, and stood still in amazement: there was no one there. "Where are they?" I asked somebody. But by now, of course, they had separated. Before me was standing a person with a stupid smile, the "madam" herself, who had seen me before. A minute later a door opened and another person came in. Taking no notice of anything I strode about the room, and, I believe, I talked to myself. I felt as though I had been saved from death and was conscious of this, joyfully, all over: I should have given that slap, I should certainly, certainly have given it! But now they were not here and ... everything had vanished and changed! I looked round. I could not realise my condition yet. I looked mechanically at the girl who had come in: and had a glimpse of a fresh, young, rather pale face, with straight, dark eyebrows, and with grave, as it were wondering, eyes that attracted me at once; I should have hated her if she had been smiling. I began looking at her more intently and, as it were, with effort. I had not fully collected my thoughts. There was something simple and good-natured in her face, but something strangely grave. I am sure that this stood in her way here, and no one of those fools had noticed her. She could not, however, have been called a beauty, though she was tall, strong-looking, and well built. She was very simply dressed. Something loathsome stirred within me. I went straight up to her. I chanced to look into the glass. My harassed face struck me as revolting in the extreme, pale, angry, abject, with dishevelled hair. "No matter, I am glad of it," I thought; "I am glad that I shall seem repulsive to her; I like that." VI ... Somewhere behind a screen a clock began wheezing, as though oppressed by something, as though someone were strangling it. After an unnaturally prolonged wheezing there followed a shrill, nasty, and as it were unexpectedly rapid, chime--as though someone were suddenly jumping forward. It struck two. I woke up, though I had indeed not been asleep but lying half-conscious. It was almost completely dark in the narrow, cramped, low-pitched room, cumbered up with an enormous wardrobe and piles of cardboard boxes and all sorts of frippery and litter. The candle end that had been burning on the table was going out and gave a faint flicker from time to time. In a few minutes there would be complete darkness. I was not long in coming to myself; everything came back to my mind at once, without an effort, as though it had been in ambush to pounce upon me again. And, indeed, even while I was unconscious a point seemed continually to remain in my memory unforgotten, and round it my dreams moved drearily. But strange to say, everything that had happened to me in that day seemed to me now, on waking, to be in the far, far away past, as though I had long, long ago lived all that down. My head was full of fumes. Something seemed to be hovering over me, rousing me, exciting me, and making me restless. Misery and spite seemed surging up in me again and seeking an outlet. Suddenly I saw beside me two wide open eyes scrutinising me curiously and persistently. The look in those eyes was coldly detached, sullen, as it were utterly remote; it weighed upon me. A grim idea came into my brain and passed all over my body, as a horrible sensation, such as one feels when one goes into a damp and mouldy cellar. There was something unnatural in those two eyes, beginning to look at me only now. I recalled, too, that during those two hours I had not said a single word to this creature, and had, in fact, considered it utterly superfluous; in fact, the silence had for some reason gratified me. Now I suddenly realised vividly the hideous idea-- revolting as a spider--of vice, which, without love, grossly and shamelessly begins with that in which true love finds its consummation. For a long time we gazed at each other like that, but she did not drop her eyes before mine and her expression did not change, so that at last I felt uncomfortable. "What is your name?" I asked abruptly, to put an end to it. "Liza," she answered almost in a whisper, but somehow far from graciously, and she turned her eyes away. I was silent. "What weather! The snow ... it's disgusting!" I said, almost to myself, putting my arm under my head despondently, and gazing at the ceiling. She made no answer. This was horrible. "Have you always lived in Petersburg?" I asked a minute later, almost angrily, turning my head slightly towards her. "No." "Where do you come from?" "From Riga," she answered reluctantly. "Are you a German?" "No, Russian." "Have you been here long?" "Where?" "In this house?" "A fortnight." She spoke more and more jerkily. The candle went out; I could no longer distinguish her face. "Have you a father and mother?" "Yes ... no ... I have." "Where are they?" "There ... in Riga." "What are they?" "Oh, nothing." "Nothing? Why, what class are they?" "Tradespeople." "Have you always lived with them?" "Yes." "How old are you?" "Twenty." "Why did you leave them?" "Oh, for no reason." That answer meant "Let me alone; I feel sick, sad." We were silent. God knows why I did not go away. I felt myself more and more sick and dreary. The images of the previous day began of themselves, apart from my will, flitting through my memory in confusion. I suddenly recalled something I had seen that morning when, full of anxious thoughts, I was hurrying to the office. "I saw them carrying a coffin out yesterday and they nearly dropped it," I suddenly said aloud, not that I desired to open the conversation, but as it were by accident. "A coffin?" "Yes, in the Haymarket; they were bringing it up out of a cellar." "From a cellar?" "Not from a cellar, but a basement. Oh, you know ... down below ... from a house of ill-fame. It was filthy all round ... Egg-shells, litter ... a stench. It was loathsome." Silence. "A nasty day to be buried," I began, simply to avoid being silent. "Nasty, in what way?" "The snow, the wet." (I yawned.) "It makes no difference," she said suddenly, after a brief silence. "No, it's horrid." (I yawned again). "The gravediggers must have sworn at getting drenched by the snow. And there must have been water in the grave." "Why water in the grave?" she asked, with a sort of curiosity, but speaking even more harshly and abruptly than before. I suddenly began to feel provoked. "Why, there must have been water at the bottom a foot deep. You can't dig a dry grave in Volkovo Cemetery." "Why?" "Why? Why, the place is waterlogged. It's a regular marsh. So they bury them in water. I've seen it myself ... many times." (I had never seen it once, indeed I had never been in Volkovo, and had only heard stories of it.) "Do you mean to say, you don't mind how you die?" "But why should I die?" she answered, as though defending herself. "Why, some day you will die, and you will die just the same as that dead woman. She was ... a girl like you. She died of consumption." "A wench would have died in hospital ..." (She knows all about it already: she said "wench," not "girl.") "She was in debt to her madam," I retorted, more and more provoked by the discussion; "and went on earning money for her up to the end, though she was in consumption. Some sledge-drivers standing by were talking about her to some soldiers and telling them so. No doubt they knew her. They were laughing. They were going to meet in a pot-house to drink to her memory." A great deal of this was my invention. Silence followed, profound silence. She did not stir. "And is it better to die in a hospital?" "Isn't it just the same? Besides, why should I die?" she added irritably. "If not now, a little later." "Why a little later?" "Why, indeed? Now you are young, pretty, fresh, you fetch a high price. But after another year of this life you will be very different--you will go off." "In a year?" "Anyway, in a year you will be worth less," I continued malignantly. "You will go from here to something lower, another house; a year later-- to a third, lower and lower, and in seven years you will come to a basement in the Haymarket. That will be if you were lucky. But it would be much worse if you got some disease, consumption, say ... and caught a chill, or something or other. It's not easy to get over an illness in your way of life. If you catch anything you may not get rid of it. And so you would die." "Oh, well, then I shall die," she answered, quite vindictively, and she made a quick movement. "But one is sorry." "Sorry for whom?" "Sorry for life." Silence. "Have you been engaged to be married? Eh?" "What's that to you?" "Oh, I am not cross-examining you. It's nothing to me. Why are you so cross? Of course you may have had your own troubles. What is it to me? It's simply that I felt sorry." "Sorry for whom?" "Sorry for you." "No need," she whispered hardly audibly, and again made a faint movement. That incensed me at once. What! I was so gentle with her, and she .... "Why, do you think that you are on the right path?" "I don't think anything." "That's what's wrong, that you don't think. Realise it while there is still time. There still is time. You are still young, good-looking; you might love, be married, be happy ...." "Not all married women are happy," she snapped out in the rude abrupt tone she had used at first. "Not all, of course, but anyway it is much better than the life here. Infinitely better. Besides, with love one can live even without happiness. Even in sorrow life is sweet; life is sweet, however one lives. But here what is there but ... foulness? Phew!" I turned away with disgust; I was no longer reasoning coldly. I began to feel myself what I was saying and warmed to the subject. I was already longing to expound the cherished ideas I had brooded over in my corner. Something suddenly flared up in me. An object had appeared before me. "Never mind my being here, I am not an example for you. I am, perhaps, worse than you are. I was drunk when I came here, though," I hastened, however, to say in self-defence. "Besides, a man is no example for a woman. It's a different thing. I may degrade and defile myself, but I am not anyone's slave. I come and go, and that's an end of it. I shake it off, and I am a different man. But you are a slave from the start. Yes, a slave! You give up everything, your whole freedom. If you want to break your chains afterwards, you won't be able to; you will be more and more fast in the snares. It is an accursed bondage. I know it. I won't speak of anything else, maybe you won't understand, but tell me: no doubt you are in debt to your madam? There, you see," I added, though she made no answer, but only listened in silence, entirely absorbed, "that's a bondage for you! You will never buy your freedom. They will see to that. It's like selling your soul to the devil .... And besides ... perhaps, I too, am just as unlucky--how do you know--and wallow in the mud on purpose, out of misery? You know, men take to drink from grief; well, maybe I am here from grief. Come, tell me, what is there good here? Here you and I ... came together ... just now and did not say one word to one another all the time, and it was only afterwards you began staring at me like a wild creature, and I at you. Is that loving? Is that how one human being should meet another? It's hideous, that's what it is!" "Yes!" she assented sharply and hurriedly. I was positively astounded by the promptitude of this "Yes." So the same thought may have been straying through her mind when she was staring at me just before. So she, too, was capable of certain thoughts? "Damn it all, this was interesting, this was a point of likeness!" I thought, almost rubbing my hands. And indeed it's easy to turn a young soul like that! It was the exercise of my power that attracted me most. She turned her head nearer to me, and it seemed to me in the darkness that she propped herself on her arm. Perhaps she was scrutinising me. How I regretted that I could not see her eyes. I heard her deep breathing. "Why have you come here?" I asked her, with a note of authority already in my voice. "Oh, I don't know." "But how nice it would be to be living in your father's house! It's warm and free; you have a home of your own." "But what if it's worse than this?" "I must take the right tone," flashed through my mind. "I may not get far with sentimentality." But it was only a momentary thought. I swear she really did interest me. Besides, I was exhausted and moody. And cunning so easily goes hand-in-hand with feeling. "Who denies it!" I hastened to answer. "Anything may happen. I am convinced that someone has wronged you, and that you are more sinned against than sinning. Of course, I know nothing of your story, but it's not likely a girl like you has come here of her own inclination ...." "A girl like me?" she whispered, hardly audibly; but I heard it. Damn it all, I was flattering her. That was horrid. But perhaps it was a good thing .... She was silent. "See, Liza, I will tell you about myself. If I had had a home from childhood, I shouldn't be what I am now. I often think that. However bad it may be at home, anyway they are your father and mother, and not enemies, strangers. Once a year at least, they'll show their love of you. Anyway, you know you are at home. I grew up without a home; and perhaps that's why I've turned so ... unfeeling." I waited again. "Perhaps she doesn't understand," I thought, "and, indeed, it is absurd--it's moralising." "If I were a father and had a daughter, I believe I should love my daughter more than my sons, really," I began indirectly, as though talking of something else, to distract her attention. I must confess I blushed. "Why so?" she asked. Ah! so she was listening! "I don't know, Liza. I knew a father who was a stern, austere man, but used to go down on his knees to his daughter, used to kiss her hands, her feet, he couldn't make enough of her, really. When she danced at parties he used to stand for five hours at a stretch, gazing at her. He was mad over her: I understand that! She would fall asleep tired at night, and he would wake to kiss her in her sleep and make the sign of the cross over her. He would go about in a dirty old coat, he was stingy to everyone else, but would spend his last penny for her, giving her expensive presents, and it was his greatest delight when she was pleased with what he gave her. Fathers always love their daughters more than the mothers do. Some girls live happily at home! And I believe I should never let my daughters marry." "What next?" she said, with a faint smile. "I should be jealous, I really should. To think that she should kiss anyone else! That she should love a stranger more than her father! It's painful to imagine it. Of course, that's all nonsense, of course every father would be reasonable at last. But I believe before I should let her marry, I should worry myself to death; I should find fault with all her suitors. But I should end by letting her marry whom she herself loved. The one whom the daughter loves always seems the worst to the father, you know. That is always so. So many family troubles come from that." "Some are glad to sell their daughters, rather than marrying them honourably." Ah, so that was it! "Such a thing, Liza, happens in those accursed families in which there is neither love nor God," I retorted warmly, "and where there is no love, there is no sense either. There are such families, it's true, but I am not speaking of them. You must have seen wickedness in your own family, if you talk like that. Truly, you must have been unlucky. H'm! ... that sort of thing mostly comes about through poverty." "And is it any better with the gentry? Even among the poor, honest people who live happily?" "H'm ... yes. Perhaps. Another thing, Liza, man is fond of reckoning up his troubles, but does not count his joys. If he counted them up as he ought, he would see that every lot has enough happiness provided for it. And what if all goes well with the family, if the blessing of God is upon it, if the husband is a good one, loves you, cherishes you, never leaves you! There is happiness in such a family! Even sometimes there is happiness in the midst of sorrow; and indeed sorrow is everywhere. If you marry YOU WILL FIND OUT FOR YOURSELF. But think of the first years of married life with one you love: what happiness, what happiness there sometimes is in it! And indeed it's the ordinary thing. In those early days even quarrels with one's husband end happily. Some women get up quarrels with their husbands just because they love them. Indeed, I knew a woman like that: she seemed to say that because she loved him, she would torment him and make him feel it. You know that you may torment a man on purpose through love. Women are particularly given to that, thinking to themselves 'I will love him so, I will make so much of him afterwards, that it's no sin to torment him a little now.' And all in the house rejoice in the sight of you, and you are happy and gay and peaceful and honourable .... Then there are some women who are jealous. If he went off anywhere--I knew one such woman, she couldn't restrain herself, but would jump up at night and run off on the sly to find out where he was, whether he was with some other woman. That's a pity. And the woman knows herself it's wrong, and her heart fails her and she suffers, but she loves--it's all through love. And how sweet it is to make up after quarrels, to own herself in the wrong or to forgive him! And they both are so happy all at once--as though they had met anew, been married over again; as though their love had begun afresh. And no one, no one should know what passes between husband and wife if they love one another. And whatever quarrels there may be between them they ought not to call in their own mother to judge between them and tell tales of one another. They are their own judges. Love is a holy mystery and ought to be hidden from all other eyes, whatever happens. That makes it holier and better. They respect one another more, and much is built on respect. And if once there has been love, if they have been married for love, why should love pass away? Surely one can keep it! It is rare that one cannot keep it. And if the husband is kind and straightforward, why should not love last? The first phase of married love will pass, it is true, but then there will come a love that is better still. Then there will be the union of souls, they will have everything in common, there will be no secrets between them. And once they have children, the most difficult times will seem to them happy, so long as there is love and courage. Even toil will be a joy, you may deny yourself bread for your children and even that will be a joy, They will love you for it afterwards; so you are laying by for your future. As the children grow up you feel that you are an example, a support for them; that even after you die your children will always keep your thoughts and feelings, because they have received them from you, they will take on your semblance and likeness. So you see this is a great duty. How can it fail to draw the father and mother nearer? People say it's a trial to have children. Who says that? It is heavenly happiness! Are you fond of little children, Liza? I am awfully fond of them. You know--a little rosy baby boy at your bosom, and what husband's heart is not touched, seeing his wife nursing his child! A plump little rosy baby, sprawling and snuggling, chubby little hands and feet, clean tiny little nails, so tiny that it makes one laugh to look at them; eyes that look as if they understand everything. And while it sucks it clutches at your bosom with its little hand, plays. When its father comes up, the child tears itself away from the bosom, flings itself back, looks at its father, laughs, as though it were fearfully funny, and falls to sucking again. Or it will bite its mother's breast when its little teeth are coming, while it looks sideways at her with its little eyes as though to say, 'Look, I am biting!' Is not all that happiness when they are the three together, husband, wife and child? One can forgive a great deal for the sake of such moments. Yes, Liza, one must first learn to live oneself before one blames others!" "It's by pictures, pictures like that one must get at you," I thought to myself, though I did speak with real feeling, and all at once I flushed crimson. "What if she were suddenly to burst out laughing, what should I do then?" That idea drove me to fury. Towards the end of my speech I really was excited, and now my vanity was somehow wounded. The silence continued. I almost nudged her. "Why are you--" she began and stopped. But I understood: there was a quiver of something different in her voice, not abrupt, harsh and unyielding as before, but something soft and shamefaced, so shamefaced that I suddenly felt ashamed and guilty. "What?" I asked, with tender curiosity. "Why, you ..." "What?" "Why, you ... speak somehow like a book," she said, and again there was a note of irony in her voice. That remark sent a pang to my heart. It was not what I was expecting. I did not understand that she was hiding her feelings under irony, that this is usually the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded, and that their pride makes them refuse to surrender till the last moment and shrink from giving expression to their feelings before you. I ought to have guessed the truth from the timidity with which she had repeatedly approached her sarcasm, only bringing herself to utter it at last with an effort. But I did not guess, and an evil feeling took possession of me. "Wait a bit!" I thought. VII "Oh, hush, Liza! How can you talk about being like a book, when it makes even me, an outsider, feel sick? Though I don't look at it as an outsider, for, indeed, it touches me to the heart .... Is it possible, is it possible that you do not feel sick at being here yourself? Evidently habit does wonders! God knows what habit can do with anyone. Can you seriously think that you will never grow old, that you will always be good- looking, and that they will keep you here for ever and ever? I say nothing of the loathsomeness of the life here .... Though let me tell you this about it--about your present life, I mean; here though you are young now, attractive, nice, with soul and feeling, yet you know as soon as I came to myself just now I felt at once sick at being here with you! One can only come here when one is drunk. But if you were anywhere else, living as good people live, I should perhaps be more than attracted by you, should fall in love with you, should be glad of a look from you, let alone a word; I should hang about your door, should go down on my knees to you, should look upon you as my betrothed and think it an honour to be allowed to. I should not dare to have an impure thought about you. But here, you see, I know that I have only to whistle and you have to come with me whether you like it or not. I don't consult your wishes, but you mine. The lowest labourer hires himself as a workman, but he doesn't make a slave of himself altogether; besides, he knows that he will be free again presently. But when are you free? Only think what you are giving up here? What is it you are making a slave of? It is your soul, together with your body; you are selling your soul which you have no right to dispose of! You give your love to be outraged by every drunkard! Love! But that's everything, you know, it's a priceless diamond, it's a maiden's treasure, love--why, a man would be ready to give his soul, to face death to gain that love. But how much is your love worth now? You are sold, all of you, body and soul, and there is no need to strive for love when you can have everything without love. And you know there is no greater insult to a girl than that, do you understand? To be sure, I have heard that they comfort you, poor fools, they let you have lovers of your own here. But you know that's simply a farce, that's simply a sham, it's just laughing at you, and you are taken in by it! Why, do you suppose he really loves you, that lover of yours? I don't believe it. How can he love you when he knows you may be called away from him any minute? He would be a low fellow if he did! Will he have a grain of respect for you? What have you in common with him? He laughs at you and robs you--that is all his love amounts to! You are lucky if he does not beat you. Very likely he does beat you, too. Ask him, if you have got one, whether he will marry you. He will laugh in your face, if he doesn't spit in it or give you a blow--though maybe he is not worth a bad halfpenny himself. And for what have you ruined your life, if you come to think of it? For the coffee they give you to drink and the plentiful meals? But with what object are they feeding you up? An honest girl couldn't swallow the food, for she would know what she was being fed for. You are in debt here, and, of course, you will always be in debt, and you will go on in debt to the end, till the visitors here begin to scorn you. And that will soon happen, don't rely upon your youth--all that flies by express train here, you know. You will be kicked out. And not simply kicked out; long before that she'll begin nagging at you, scolding you, abusing you, as though you had not sacrificed your health for her, had not thrown away your youth and your soul for her benefit, but as though you had ruined her, beggared her, robbed her. And don't expect anyone to take your part: the others, your companions, will attack you, too, win her favour, for all are in slavery here, and have lost all conscience and pity here long ago. They have become utterly vile, and nothing on earth is viler, more loathsome, and more insulting than their abuse. And you are laying down everything here, unconditionally, youth and health and beauty and hope, and at twenty-two you will look like a woman of five-and-thirty, and you will be lucky if you are not diseased, pray to God for that! No doubt you are thinking now that you have a gay time and no work to do! Yet there is no work harder or more dreadful in the world or ever has been. One would think that the heart alone would be worn out with tears. And you won't dare to say a word, not half a word when they drive you away from here; you will go away as though you were to blame. You will change to another house, then to a third, then somewhere else, till you come down at last to the Haymarket. There you will be beaten at every turn; that is good manners there, the visitors don't know how to be friendly without beating you. You don't believe that it is so hateful there? Go and look for yourself some time, you can see with your own eyes. Once, one New Year's Day, I saw a woman at a door. They had turned her out as a joke, to give her a taste of the frost because she had been crying so much, and they shut the door behind her. At nine o'clock in the morning she was already quite drunk, dishevelled, half-naked, covered with bruises, her face was powdered, but she had a black-eye, blood was trickling from her nose and her teeth; some cabman had just given her a drubbing. She was sitting on the stone steps, a salt fish of some sort was in her hand; she was crying, wailing something about her luck and beating with the fish on the steps, and cabmen and drunken soldiers were crowding in the doorway taunting her. You don't believe that you will ever be like that? I should be sorry to believe it, too, but how do you know; maybe ten years, eight years ago that very woman with the salt fish came here fresh as a cherub, innocent, pure, knowing no evil, blushing at every word. Perhaps she was like you, proud, ready to take offence, not like the others; perhaps she looked like a queen, and knew what happiness was in store for the man who should love her and whom she should love. Do you see how it ended? And what if at that very minute when she was beating on the filthy steps with that fish, drunken and dishevelled--what if at that very minute she recalled the pure early days in her father's house, when she used to go to school and the neighbour's son watched for her on the way, declaring that he would love her as long as he lived, that he would devote his life to her, and when they vowed to love one another for ever and be married as soon as they were grown up! No, Liza, it would be happy for you if you were to die soon of consumption in some corner, in some cellar like that woman just now. In the hospital, do you say? You will be lucky if they take you, but what if you are still of use to the madam here? Consumption is a queer disease, it is not like fever. The patient goes on hoping till the last minute and says he is all right. He deludes himself And that just suits your madam. Don't doubt it, that's how it is; you have sold your soul, and what is more you owe money, so you daren't say a word. But when you are dying, all will abandon you, all will turn away from you, for then there will be nothing to get from you. What's more, they will reproach you for cumbering the place, for being so long over dying. However you beg you won't get a drink of water without abuse: 'Whenever are you going off, you nasty hussy, you won't let us sleep with your moaning, you make the gentlemen sick.' That's true, I have heard such things said myself. They will thrust you dying into the filthiest corner in the cellar--in the damp and darkness; what will your thoughts be, lying there alone? When you die, strange hands will lay you out, with grumbling and impatience; no one will bless you, no one will sigh for you, they only want to get rid of you as soon as may be; they will buy a coffin, take you to the grave as they did that poor woman today, and celebrate your memory at the tavern. In the grave, sleet, filth, wet snow-- no need to put themselves out for you--'Let her down, Vanuha; it's just like her luck--even here, she is head-foremost, the hussy. Shorten the cord, you rascal.' 'It's all right as it is.' 'All right, is it? Why, she's on her side! She was a fellow-creature, after all! But, never mind, throw the earth on her.' And they won't care to waste much time quarrelling over you. They will scatter the wet blue clay as quick as they can and go off to the tavern ... and there your memory on earth will end; other women have children to go to their graves, fathers, husbands. While for you neither tear, nor sigh, nor remembrance; no one in the whole world will ever come to you, your name will vanish from the face of the earth--as though you had never existed, never been born at all! Nothing but filth and mud, however you knock at your coffin lid at night, when the dead arise, however you cry: 'Let me out, kind people, to live in the light of day! My life was no life at all; my life has been thrown away like a dish- clout; it was drunk away in the tavern at the Haymarket; let me out, kind people, to live in the world again.'" And I worked myself up to such a pitch that I began to have a lump in my throat myself, and ... and all at once I stopped, sat up in dismay and, bending over apprehensively, began to listen with a beating heart. I had reason to be troubled. I had felt for some time that I was turning her soul upside down and rending her heart, and--and the more I was convinced of it, the more eagerly I desired to gain my object as quickly and as effectually as possible. It was the exercise of my skill that carried me away; yet it was not merely sport .... I knew I was speaking stiffly, artificially, even bookishly, in fact, I could not speak except "like a book." But that did not trouble me: I knew, I felt that I should be understood and that this very bookishness might be an assistance. But now, having attained my effect, I was suddenly panic-stricken. Never before had I witnessed such despair! She was lying on her face, thrusting her face into the pillow and clutching it in both hands. Her heart was being torn. Her youthful body was shuddering all over as though in convulsions. Suppressed sobs rent her bosom and suddenly burst out in weeping and wailing, then she pressed closer into the pillow: she did not want anyone here, not a living soul, to know of her anguish and her tears. She bit the pillow, bit her hand till it bled (I saw that afterwards), or, thrusting her fingers into her dishevelled hair, seemed rigid with the effort of restraint, holding her breath and clenching her teeth. I began saying something, begging her to calm herself, but felt that I did not dare; and all at once, in a sort of cold shiver, almost in terror, began fumbling in the dark, trying hurriedly to get dressed to go. It was dark; though I tried my best I could not finish dressing quickly. Suddenly I felt a box of matches and a candlestick with a whole candle in it. As soon as the room was lighted up, Liza sprang up, sat up in bed, and with a contorted face, with a half insane smile, looked at me almost senselessly. I sat down beside her and took her hands; she came to herself, made an impulsive movement towards me, would have caught hold of me, but did not dare, and slowly bowed her head before me. "Liza, my dear, I was wrong ... forgive me, my dear," I began, but she squeezed my hand in her fingers so tightly that I felt I was saying the wrong thing and stopped. "This is my address, Liza, come to me." "I will come," she answered resolutely, her head still bowed. "But now I am going, good-bye ... till we meet again." I got up; she, too, stood up and suddenly flushed all over, gave a shudder, snatched up a shawl that was lying on a chair and muffled herself in it to her chin. As she did this she gave another sickly smile, blushed and looked at me strangely. I felt wretched; I was in haste to get away--to disappear. "Wait a minute," she said suddenly, in the passage just at the doorway, stopping me with her hand on my overcoat. She put down the candle in hot haste and ran off; evidently she had thought of something or wanted to show me something. As she ran away she flushed, her eyes shone, and there was a smile on her lips--what was the meaning of it? Against my will I waited: she came back a minute later with an expression that seemed to ask forgiveness for something. In fact, it was not the same face, not the same look as the evening before: sullen, mistrustful and obstinate. Her eyes now were imploring, soft, and at the same time trustful, caressing, timid. The expression with which children look at people they are very fond of, of whom they are asking a favour. Her eyes were a light hazel, they were lovely eyes, full of life, and capable of expressing love as well as sullen hatred. Making no explanation, as though I, as a sort of higher being, must understand everything without explanations, she held out a piece of paper to me. Her whole face was positively beaming at that instant with naive, almost childish, triumph. I unfolded it. It was a letter to her from a medical student or someone of that sort--a very high-flown and flowery, but extremely respectful, love-letter. I don't recall the words now, but I remember well that through the high-flown phrases there was apparent a genuine feeling, which cannot be feigned. When I had finished reading it I met her glowing, questioning, and childishly impatient eyes fixed upon me. She fastened her eyes upon my face and waited impatiently for what I should say. In a few words, hurriedly, but with a sort of joy and pride, she explained to me that she had been to a dance somewhere in a private house, a family of "very nice people, WHO KNEW NOTHING, absolutely nothing, for she had only come here so lately and it had all happened ... and she hadn't made up her mind to stay and was certainly going away as soon as she had paid her debt..." and at that party there had been the student who had danced with her all the evening. He had talked to her, and it turned out that he had known her in old days at Riga when he was a child, they had played together, but a very long time ago--and he knew her parents, but ABOUT THIS he knew nothing, nothing whatever, and had no suspicion! And the day after the dance (three days ago) he had sent her that letter through the friend with whom she had gone to the party ... and ... well, that was all." She dropped her shining eyes with a sort of bashfulness as she finished. The poor girl was keeping that student's letter as a precious treasure, and had run to fetch it, her only treasure, because she did not want me to go away without knowing that she, too, was honestly and genuinely loved; that she, too, was addressed respectfully. No doubt that letter was destined to lie in her box and lead to nothing. But none the less, I am certain that she would keep it all her life as a precious treasure, as her pride and justification, and now at such a minute she had thought of that letter and brought it with naive pride to raise herself in my eyes that I might see, that I, too, might think well of her. I said nothing, pressed her hand and went out. I so longed to get away ... I walked all the way home, in spite of the fact that the melting snow was still falling in heavy flakes. I was exhausted, shattered, in bewilderment. But behind the bewilderment the truth was already gleaming. The loathsome truth. VIII It was some time, however, before I consented to recognise that truth. Waking up in the morning after some hours of heavy, leaden sleep, and immediately realising all that had happened on the previous day, I was positively amazed at my last night's SENTIMENTALITY with Liza, at all those "outcries of horror and pity." "To think of having such an attack of womanish hysteria, pah!" I concluded. And what did I thrust my address upon her for? What if she comes? Let her come, though; it doesn't matter .... But OBVIOUSLY, that was not now the chief and the most important matter: I had to make haste and at all costs save my reputation in the eyes of Zverkov and Simonov as quickly as possible; that was the chief business. And I was so taken up that morning that I actually forgot all about Liza. First of all I had at once to repay what I had borrowed the day before from Simonov. I resolved on a desperate measure: to borrow fifteen roubles straight off from Anton Antonitch. As luck would have it he was in the best of humours that morning, and gave it to me at once, on the first asking. I was so delighted at this that, as I signed the IOU with a swaggering air, I told him casually that the night before "I had been keeping it up with some friends at the Hotel de Paris; we were giving a farewell party to a comrade, in fact, I might say a friend of my childhood, and you know--a desperate rake, fearfully spoilt--of course, he belongs to a good family, and has considerable means, a brilliant career; he is witty, charming, a regular Lovelace, you understand; we drank an extra 'half-dozen' and ..." And it went off all right; all this was uttered very easily, unconstrainedly and complacently. On reaching home I promptly wrote to Simonov. To this hour I am lost in admiration when I recall the truly gentlemanly, good-humoured, candid tone of my letter. With tact and good- breeding, and, above all, entirely without superfluous words, I blamed myself for all that had happened. I defended myself, "if I really may be allowed to defend myself," by alleging that being utterly unaccustomed to wine, I had been intoxicated with the first glass, which I said, I had drunk before they arrived, while I was waiting for them at the Hotel de Paris between five and six o'clock. I begged Simonov's pardon especially; I asked him to convey my explanations to all the others, especially to Zverkov, whom "I seemed to remember as though in a dream" I had insulted. I added that I would have called upon all of them myself, but my head ached, and besides I had not the face to. I was particularly pleased with a certain lightness, almost carelessness (strictly within the bounds of politeness, however), which was apparent in my style, and better than any possible arguments, gave them at once to understand that I took rather an independent view of "all that unpleasantness last night"; that I was by no means so utterly crushed as you, my friends, probably imagine; but on the contrary, looked upon it as a gentleman serenely respecting himself should look upon it. "On a young hero's past no censure is cast!" "There is actually an aristocratic playfulness about it!" I thought admiringly, as I read over the letter. "And it's all because I am an intellectual and cultivated man! Another man in my place would not have known how to extricate himself, but here I have got out of it and am as jolly as ever again, and all because I am 'a cultivated and educated man of our day.' And, indeed, perhaps, everything was due to the wine yesterday. H'm!" ... No, it was not the wine. I did not drink anything at all between five and six when I was waiting for them. I had lied to Simonov; I had lied shamelessly; and indeed I wasn't ashamed now .... Hang it all though, the great thing was that I was rid of it. I put six roubles in the letter, sealed it up, and asked Apollon to take it to Simonov. When he learned that there was money in the letter, Apollon became more respectful and agreed to take it. Towards evening I went out for a walk. My head was still aching and giddy after yesterday. But as evening came on and the twilight grew denser, my impressions and, following them, my thoughts, grew more and more different and confused. Something was not dead within me, in the depths of my heart and conscience it would not die, and it showed itself in acute depression. For the most part I jostled my way through the most crowded business streets, along Myeshtchansky Street, along Sadovy Street and in Yusupov Garden. I always liked particularly sauntering along these streets in the dusk, just when there were crowds of working people of all sorts going home from their daily work, with faces looking cross with anxiety. What I liked was just that cheap bustle, that bare prose. On this occasion the jostling of the streets irritated me more than ever, I could not make out what was wrong with me, I could not find the clue, something seemed rising up continually in my soul, painfully, and refusing to be appeased. I returned home completely upset, it was just as though some crime were lying on my conscience. The thought that Liza was coming worried me continually. It seemed queer to me that of all my recollections of yesterday this tormented me, as it were, especially, as it were, quite separately. Everything else I had quite succeeded in forgetting by the evening; I dismissed it all and was still perfectly satisfied with my letter to Simonov. But on this point I was not satisfied at all. It was as though I were worried only by Liza. "What if she comes," I thought incessantly, "well, it doesn't matter, let her come! H'm! it's horrid that she should see, for instance, how I live. Yesterday I seemed such a hero to her, while now, h'm! It's horrid, though, that I have let myself go so, the room looks like a beggar's. And I brought myself to go out to dinner in such a suit! And my American leather sofa with the stuffing sticking out. And my dressing-gown, which will not cover me, such tatters, and she will see all this and she will see Apollon. That beast is certain to insult her. He will fasten upon her in order to be rude to me. And I, of course, shall be panic-stricken as usual, I shall begin bowing and scraping before her and pulling my dressing-gown round me, I shall begin smiling, telling lies. Oh, the beastliness! And it isn't the beastliness of it that matters most! There is something more important, more loathsome, viler! Yes, viler! And to put on that dishonest lying mask again! ..." When I reached that thought I fired up all at once. "Why dishonest? How dishonest? I was speaking sincerely last night. I remember there was real feeling in me, too. What I wanted was to excite an honourable feeling in her .... Her crying was a good thing, it will have a good effect." Yet I could not feel at ease. All that evening, even when I had come back home, even after nine o'clock, when I calculated that Liza could not possibly come, still she haunted me, and what was worse, she came back to my mind always in the same position. One moment out of all that had happened last night stood vividly before my imagination; the moment when I struck a match and saw her pale, distorted face, with its look of torture. And what a pitiful, what an unnatural, what a distorted smile she had at that moment! But I did not know then, that fifteen years later I should still in my imagination see Liza, always with the pitiful, distorted, inappropriate smile which was on her face at that minute. Next day I was ready again to look upon it all as nonsense, due to over- excited nerves, and, above all, as EXAGGERATED. I was always conscious of that weak point of mine, and sometimes very much afraid of it. "I exaggerate everything, that is where I go wrong," I repeated to myself every hour. But, however, "Liza will very likely come all the same," was the refrain with which all my reflections ended. I was so uneasy that I sometimes flew into a fury: "She'll come, she is certain to come!" I cried, running about the room, "if not today, she will come tomorrow; she'll find me out! The damnable romanticism of these pure hearts! Oh, the vileness--oh, the silliness--oh, the stupidity of these 'wretched sentimental souls!' Why, how fail to understand? How could one fail to understand? ..." But at this point I stopped short, and in great confusion, indeed. And how few, how few words, I thought, in passing, were needed; how little of the idyllic (and affectedly, bookishly, artificially idyllic too) had sufficed to turn a whole human life at once according to my will. That's virginity, to be sure! Freshness of soil! At times a thought occurred to me, to go to her, "to tell her all," and beg her not to come to me. But this thought stirred such wrath in me that I believed I should have crushed that "damned" Liza if she had chanced to be near me at the time. I should have insulted her, have spat at her, have turned her out, have struck her! One day passed, however, another and another; she did not come and I began to grow calmer. I felt particularly bold and cheerful after nine o'clock, I even sometimes began dreaming, and rather sweetly: I, for instance, became the salvation of Liza, simply through her coming to me and my talking to her .... I develop her, educate her. Finally, I notice that she loves me, loves me passionately. I pretend not to understand (I don't know, however, why I pretend, just for effect, perhaps). At last all confusion, transfigured, trembling and sobbing, she flings herself at my feet and says that I am her saviour, and that she loves me better than anything in the world. I am amazed, but .... "Liza," I say, "can you imagine that I have not noticed your love? I saw it all, I divined it, but I did not dare to approach you first, because I had an influence over you and was afraid that you would force yourself, from gratitude, to respond to my love, would try to rouse in your heart a feeling which was perhaps absent, and I did not wish that ... because it would be tyranny ... it would be indelicate (in short, I launch off at that point into European, inexplicably lofty subtleties a la George Sand), but now, now you are mine, you are my creation, you are pure, you are good, you are my noble wife. 'Into my house come bold and free, Its rightful mistress there to be'." Then we begin living together, go abroad and so on, and so on. In fact, in the end it seemed vulgar to me myself, and I began putting out my tongue at myself. Besides, they won't let her out, "the hussy!" I thought. They don't let them go out very readily, especially in the evening (for some reason I fancied she would come in the evening, and at seven o'clock precisely). Though she did say she was not altogether a slave there yet, and had certain rights; so, h'm! Damn it all, she will come, she is sure to come! It was a good thing, in fact, that Apollon distracted my attention at that time by his rudeness. He drove me beyond all patience! He was the bane of my life, the curse laid upon me by Providence. We had been squabbling continually for years, and I hated him. My God, how I hated him! I believe I had never hated anyone in my life as I hated him, especially at some moments. He was an elderly, dignified man, who worked part of his time as a tailor. But for some unknown reason he despised me beyond all measure, and looked down upon me insufferably. Though, indeed, he looked down upon everyone. Simply to glance at that flaxen, smoothly brushed head, at the tuft of hair he combed up on his forehead and oiled with sunflower oil, at that dignified mouth, compressed into the shape of the letter V, made one feel one was confronting a man who never doubted of himself. He was a pedant, to the most extreme point, the greatest pedant I had met on earth, and with that had a vanity only befitting Alexander of Macedon. He was in love with every button on his coat, every nail on his fingers--absolutely in love with them, and he looked it! In his behaviour to me he was a perfect tyrant, he spoke very little to me, and if he chanced to glance at me he gave me a firm, majestically self- confident and invariably ironical look that drove me sometimes to fury. He did his work with the air of doing me the greatest favour, though he did scarcely anything for me, and did not, indeed, consider himself bound to do anything. There could be no doubt that he looked upon me as the greatest fool on earth, and that "he did not get rid of me" was simply that he could get wages from me every month. He consented to do nothing for me for seven roubles a month. Many sins should be forgiven me for what I suffered from him. My hatred reached such a point that sometimes his very step almost threw me into convulsions. What I loathed particularly was his lisp. His tongue must have been a little too long or something of that sort, for he continually lisped, and seemed to be very proud of it, imagining that it greatly added to his dignity. He spoke in a slow, measured tone, with his hands behind his back and his eyes fixed on the ground. He maddened me particularly when he read aloud the psalms to himself behind his partition. Many a battle I waged over that reading! But he was awfully fond of reading aloud in the evenings, in a slow, even, sing-song voice, as though over the dead. It is interesting that that is how he has ended: he hires himself out to read the psalms over the dead, and at the same time he kills rats and makes blacking. But at that time I could not get rid of him, it was as though he were chemically combined with my existence. Besides, nothing would have induced him to consent to leave me. I could not live in furnished lodgings: my lodging was my private solitude, my shell, my cave, in which I concealed myself from all mankind, and Apollon seemed to me, for some reason, an integral part of that flat, and for seven years I could not turn him away. To be two or three days behind with his wages, for instance, was impossible. He would have made such a fuss, I should not have known where to hide my head. But I was so exasperated with everyone during those days, that I made up my mind for some reason and with some object to PUNISH Apollon and not to pay him for a fortnight the wages that were owing him. I had for a long time--for the last two years--been intending to do this, simply in order to teach him not to give himself airs with me, and to show him that if I liked I could withhold his wages. I purposed to say nothing to him about it, and was purposely silent indeed, in order to score off his pride and force him to be the first to speak of his wages. Then I would take the seven roubles out of a drawer, show him I have the money put aside on purpose, but that I won't, I won't, I simply won't pay him his wages, I won't just because that is "what I wish," because "I am master, and it is for me to decide," because he has been disrespectful, because he has been rude; but if he were to ask respectfully I might be softened and give it to him, otherwise he might wait another fortnight, another three weeks, a whole month .... But angry as I was, yet he got the better of me. I could not hold out for four days. He began as he always did begin in such cases, for there had been such cases already, there had been attempts (and it may be observed I knew all this beforehand, I knew his nasty tactics by heart). He would begin by fixing upon me an exceedingly severe stare, keeping it up for several minutes at a time, particularly on meeting me or seeing me out of the house. If I held out and pretended not to notice these stares, he would, still in silence, proceed to further tortures. All at once, A PROPOS of nothing, he would walk softly and smoothly into my room, when I was pacing up and down or reading, stand at the door, one hand behind his back and one foot behind the other, and fix upon me a stare more than severe, utterly contemptuous. If I suddenly asked him what he wanted, he would make me no answer, but continue staring at me persistently for some seconds, then, with a peculiar compression of his lips and a most significant air, deliberately turn round and deliberately go back to his room. Two hours later he would come out again and again present himself before me in the same way. It had happened that in my fury I did not even ask him what he wanted, but simply raised my head sharply and imperiously and began staring back at him. So we stared at one another for two minutes; at last he turned with deliberation and dignity and went back again for two hours. If I were still not brought to reason by all this, but persisted in my revolt, he would suddenly begin sighing while he looked at me, long, deep sighs as though measuring by them the depths of my moral degradation, and, of course, it ended at last by his triumphing completely: I raged and shouted, but still was forced to do what he wanted. This time the usual staring manoeuvres had scarcely begun when I lost my temper and flew at him in a fury. I was irritated beyond endurance apart from him. "Stay," I cried, in a frenzy, as he was slowly and silently turning, with one hand behind his back, to go to his room. "Stay! Come back, come back, I tell you!" and I must have bawled so unnaturally, that he turned round and even looked at me with some wonder. However, he persisted in saying nothing, and that infuriated me. "How dare you come and look at me like that without being sent for? Answer!" After looking at me calmly for half a minute, he began turning round again. "Stay!" I roared, running up to him, "don't stir! There. Answer, now: what did you come in to look at?" "If you have any order to give me it's my duty to carry it out," he answered, after another silent pause, with a slow, measured lisp, raising his eyebrows and calmly twisting his head from one side to another, all this with exasperating composure. "That's not what I am asking you about, you torturer!" I shouted, turning crimson with anger. "I'll tell you why you came here myself: you see, I don't give you your wages, you are so proud you don't want to bow down and ask for it, and so you come to punish me with your stupid stares, to worry me and you have no sus-pic-ion how stupid it is-- stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid! ..." He would have turned round again without a word, but I seized him. "Listen," I shouted to him. "Here's the money, do you see, here it is," (I took it out of the table drawer); "here's the seven roubles complete, but you are not going to have it, you ... are ... not ... going ... to ... have it until you come respectfully with bowed head to beg my pardon. Do you hear?" "That cannot be," he answered, with the most unnatural self-confidence. "It shall be so," I said, "I give you my word of honour, it shall be!" "And there's nothing for me to beg your pardon for," he went on, as though he had not noticed my exclamations at all. "Why, besides, you called me a 'torturer,' for which I can summon you at the police-station at any time for insulting behaviour." "Go, summon me," I roared, "go at once, this very minute, this very second! You are a torturer all the same! a torturer!" But he merely looked at me, then turned, and regardless of my loud calls to him, he walked to his room with an even step and without looking round. "If it had not been for Liza nothing of this would have happened," I decided inwardly. Then, after waiting a minute, I went myself behind his screen with a dignified and solemn air, though my heart was beating slowly and violently. "Apollon," I said quietly and emphatically, though I was breathless, "go at once without a minute's delay and fetch the police-officer." He had meanwhile settled himself at his table, put on his spectacles and taken up some sewing. But, hearing my order, he burst into a guffaw. "At once, go this minute! Go on, or else you can't imagine what will happen." "You are certainly out of your mind," he observed, without even raising his head, lisping as deliberately as ever and threading his needle. "Whoever heard of a man sending for the police against himself? And as for being frightened--you are upsetting yourself about nothing, for nothing will come of it." "Go!" I shrieked, clutching him by the shoulder. I felt I should strike him in a minute. But I did not notice the door from the passage softly and slowly open at that instant and a figure come in, stop short, and begin staring at us in perplexity I glanced, nearly swooned with shame, and rushed back to my room. There, clutching at my hair with both hands, I leaned my head against the wall and stood motionless in that position. Two minutes later I heard Apollon's deliberate footsteps. "There is some woman asking for you," he said, looking at me with peculiar severity. Then he stood aside and let in Liza. He would not go away, but stared at us sarcastically. "Go away, go away," I commanded in desperation. At that moment my clock began whirring and wheezing and struck seven. IX "Into my house come bold and free, Its rightful mistress there to be." I stood before her crushed, crestfallen, revoltingly confused, and I believe I smiled as I did my utmost to wrap myself in the skirts of my ragged wadded dressing-gown--exactly as I had imagined the scene not long before in a fit of depression. After standing over us for a couple of minutes Apollon went away, but that did not make me more at ease. What made it worse was that she, too, was overwhelmed with confusion, more so, in fact, than I should have expected. At the sight of me, of course. "Sit down," I said mechanically, moving a chair up to the table, and I sat down on the sofa. She obediently sat down at once and gazed at me open-eyed, evidently expecting something from me at once. This naivete of expectation drove me to fury, but I restrained myself. She ought to have tried not to notice, as though everything had been as usual, while instead of that, she ... and I dimly felt that I should make her pay dearly for ALL THIS. "You have found me in a strange position, Liza," I began, stammering and knowing that this was the wrong way to begin. "No, no, don't imagine anything," I cried, seeing that she had suddenly flushed. "I am not ashamed of my poverty .... On the contrary, I look with pride on my poverty. I am poor but honourable .... One can be poor and honourable," I muttered. "However ... would you like tea? ...." "No," she was beginning. "Wait a minute." I leapt up and ran to Apollon. I had to get out of the room somehow. "Apollon," I whispered in feverish haste, flinging down before him the seven roubles which had remained all the time in my clenched fist, "here are your wages, you see I give them to you; but for that you must come to my rescue: bring me tea and a dozen rusks from the restaurant. If you won't go, you'll make me a miserable man! You don't know what this woman is .... This is--everything! You may be imagining something .... But you don't know what that woman is! ..." Apollon, who had already sat down to his work and put on his spectacles again, at first glanced askance at the money without speaking or putting down his needle; then, without paying the slightest attention to me or making any answer, he went on busying himself with his needle, which he had not yet threaded. I waited before him for three minutes with my arms crossed A LA NAPOLEON. My temples were moist with sweat. I was pale, I felt it. But, thank God, he must have been moved to pity, looking at me. Having threaded his needle he deliberately got up from his seat, deliberately moved back his chair, deliberately took off his spectacles, deliberately counted the money, and finally asking me over his shoulder: "Shall I get a whole portion?" deliberately walked out of the room. As I was going back to Liza, the thought occurred to me on the way: shouldn't I run away just as I was in my dressing-gown, no matter where, and then let happen what would? I sat down again. She looked at me uneasily. For some minutes we were silent. "I will kill him," I shouted suddenly, striking the table with my fist so that the ink spurted out of the inkstand. "What are you saying!" she cried, starting. "I will kill him! kill him!" I shrieked, suddenly striking the table in absolute frenzy, and at the same time fully understanding how stupid it was to be in such a frenzy. "You don't know, Liza, what that torturer is to me. He is my torturer .... He has gone now to fetch some rusks; he ..." And suddenly I burst into tears. It was an hysterical attack. How ashamed I felt in the midst of my sobs; but still I could not restrain them. She was frightened. "What is the matter? What is wrong?" she cried, fussing about me. "Water, give me water, over there!" I muttered in a faint voice, though I was inwardly conscious that I could have got on very well without water and without muttering in a faint voice. But I was, what is called, PUTTING IT ON, to save appearances, though the attack was a genuine one. She gave me water, looking at me in bewilderment. At that moment Apollon brought in the tea. It suddenly seemed to me that this commonplace, prosaic tea was horribly undignified and paltry after all that had happened, and I blushed crimson. Liza looked at Apollon with positive alarm. He went out without a glance at either of us. "Liza, do you despise me?" I asked, looking at her fixedly, trembling with impatience to know what she was thinking. She was confused, and did not know what to answer. "Drink your tea," I said to her angrily. I was angry with myself, but, of course, it was she who would have to pay for it. A horrible spite against her suddenly surged up in my heart; I believe I could have killed her. To revenge myself on her I swore inwardly not to say a word to her all the time. "She is the cause of it all," I thought. Our silence lasted for five minutes. The tea stood on the table; we did not touch it. I had got to the point of purposely refraining from beginning in order to embarrass her further; it was awkward for her to begin alone. Several times she glanced at me with mournful perplexity. I was obstinately silent. I was, of course, myself the chief sufferer, because I was fully conscious of the disgusting meanness of my spiteful stupidity, and yet at the same time I could not restrain myself. "I want to... get away ... from there altogether," she began, to break the silence in some way, but, poor girl, that was just what she ought not to have spoken about at such a stupid moment to a man so stupid as I was. My heart positively ached with pity for her tactless and unnecessary straightforwardness. But something hideous at once stifled all compassion in me; it even provoked me to greater venom. I did not care what happened. Another five minutes passed. "Perhaps I am in your way," she began timidly, hardly audibly, and was getting up. But as soon as I saw this first impulse of wounded dignity I positively trembled with spite, and at once burst out. "Why have you come to me, tell me that, please?" I began, gasping for breath and regardless of logical connection in my words. I longed to have it all out at once, at one burst; I did not even trouble how to begin. "Why have you come? Answer, answer," I cried, hardly knowing what I was doing. "I'll tell you, my good girl, why you have come. You've come because I talked sentimental stuff to you then. So now you are soft as butter and longing for fine sentiments again. So you may as well know that I was laughing at you then. And I am laughing at you now. Why are you shuddering? Yes, I was laughing at you! I had been insulted just before, at dinner, by the fellows who came that evening before me. I came to you, meaning to thrash one of them, an officer; but I didn't succeed, I didn't find him; I had to avenge the insult on someone to get back my own again; you turned up, I vented my spleen on you and laughed at you. I had been humiliated, so I wanted to humiliate; I had been treated like a rag, so I wanted to show my power .... That's what it was, and you imagined I had come there on purpose to save you. Yes? You imagined that? You imagined that?" I knew that she would perhaps be muddled and not take it all in exactly, but I knew, too, that she would grasp the gist of it, very well indeed. And so, indeed, she did. She turned white as a handkerchief, tried to say something, and her lips worked painfully; but she sank on a chair as though she had been felled by an axe. And all the time afterwards she listened to me with her lips parted and her eyes wide open, shuddering with awful terror. The cynicism, the cynicism of my words overwhelmed her .... "Save you!" I went on, jumping up from my chair and running up and down the room before her. "Save you from what? But perhaps I am worse than you myself. Why didn't you throw it in my teeth when I was giving you that sermon: 'But what did you come here yourself for? was it to read us a sermon?' Power, power was what I wanted then, sport was what I wanted, I wanted to wring out your tears, your humiliation, your hysteria--that was what I wanted then! Of course, I couldn't keep it up then, because I am a wretched creature, I was frightened, and, the devil knows why, gave you my address in my folly. Afterwards, before I got home, I was cursing and swearing at you because of that address, I hated you already because of the lies I had told you. Because I only like playing with words, only dreaming, but, do you know, what I really want is that you should all go to hell. That is what I want. I want peace; yes, I'd sell the whole world for a farthing, straight off, so long as I was left in peace. Is the world to go to pot, or am I to go without my tea? I say that the world may go to pot for me so long as I always get my tea. Did you know that, or not? Well, anyway, I know that I am a blackguard, a scoundrel, an egoist, a sluggard. Here I have been shuddering for the last three days at the thought of your coming. And do you know what has worried me particularly for these three days? That I posed as such a hero to you, and now you would see me in a wretched torn dressing-gown, beggarly, loathsome. I told you just now that I was not ashamed of my poverty; so you may as well know that I am ashamed of it; I am more ashamed of it than of anything, more afraid of it than of being found out if I were a thief, because I am as vain as though I had been skinned and the very air blowing on me hurt. Surely by now you must realise that I shall never forgive you for having found me in this wretched dressing-gown, just as I was flying at Apollon like a spiteful cur. The saviour, the former hero, was flying like a mangy, unkempt sheep-dog at his lackey, and the lackey was jeering at him! And I shall never forgive you for the tears I could not help shedding before you just now, like some silly woman put to shame! And for what I am confessing to you now, I shall never forgive you either! Yes--you must answer for it all because you turned up like this, because I am a blackguard, because I am the nastiest, stupidest, absurdest and most envious of all the worms on earth, who are not a bit better than I am, but, the devil knows why, are never put to confusion; while I shall always be insulted by every louse, that is my doom! And what is it to me that you don't understand a word of this! And what do I care, what do I care about you, and whether you go to ruin there or not? Do you understand? How I shall hate you now after saying this, for having been here and listening. Why, it's not once in a lifetime a man speaks out like this, and then it is in hysterics! ... What more do you want? Why do you still stand confronting me, after all this? Why are you worrying me? Why don't you go?" But at this point a strange thing happened. I was so accustomed to think and imagine everything from books, and to picture everything in the world to myself just as I had made it up in my dreams beforehand, that I could not all at once take in this strange circumstance. What happened was this: Liza, insulted and crushed by me, understood a great deal more than I imagined. She understood from all this what a woman understands first of all, if she feels genuine love, that is, that I was myself unhappy. The frightened and wounded expression on her face was followed first by a look of sorrowful perplexity. When I began calling myself a scoundrel and a blackguard and my tears flowed (the tirade was accompanied throughout by tears) her whole face worked convulsively. She was on the point of getting up and stopping me; when I finished she took no notice of my shouting: "Why are you here, why don't you go away?" but realised only that it must have been very bitter to me to say all this. Besides, she was so crushed, poor girl; she considered herself infinitely beneath me; how could she feel anger or resentment? She suddenly leapt up from her chair with an irresistible impulse and held out her hands, yearning towards me, though still timid and not daring to stir .... At this point there was a revulsion in my heart too. Then she suddenly rushed to me, threw her arms round me and burst into tears. I, too, could not restrain myself, and sobbed as I never had before. "They won't let me ... I can't be good!" I managed to articulate; then I went to the sofa, fell on it face downwards, and sobbed on it for a quarter of an hour in genuine hysterics. She came close to me, put her arms round me and stayed motionless in that position. But the trouble was that the hysterics could not go on for ever, and (I am writing the loathsome truth) lying face downwards on the sofa with my face thrust into my nasty leather pillow, I began by degrees to be aware of a far-away, involuntary but irresistible feeling that it would be awkward now for me to raise my head and look Liza straight in the face. Why was I ashamed? I don't know, but I was ashamed. The thought, too, came into my overwrought brain that our parts now were completely changed, that she was now the heroine, while I was just a crushed and humiliated creature as she had been before me that night--four days before .... And all this came into my mind during the minutes I was lying on my face on the sofa. My God! surely I was not envious of her then. I don't know, to this day I cannot decide, and at the time, of course, I was still less able to understand what I was feeling than now. I cannot get on without domineering and tyrannising over someone, but ... there is no explaining anything by reasoning and so it is useless to reason. I conquered myself, however, and raised my head; I had to do so sooner or later ... and I am convinced to this day that it was just because I was ashamed to look at her that another feeling was suddenly kindled and flamed up in my heart ... a feeling of mastery and possession. My eyes gleamed with passion, and I gripped her hands tightly. How I hated her and how I was drawn to her at that minute! The one feeling intensified the other. It was almost like an act of vengeance. At first there was a look of amazement, even of terror on her face, but only for one instant. She warmly and rapturously embraced me. X A quarter of an hour later I was rushing up and down the room in frenzied impatience, from minute to minute I went up to the screen and peeped through the crack at Liza. She was sitting on the ground with her head leaning against the bed, and must have been crying. But she did not go away, and that irritated me. This time she understood it all. I had insulted her finally, but ... there's no need to describe it. She realised that my outburst of passion had been simply revenge, a fresh humiliation, and that to my earlier, almost causeless hatred was added now a PERSONAL HATRED, born of envy .... Though I do not maintain positively that she understood all this distinctly; but she certainly did fully understand that I was a despicable man, and what was worse, incapable of loving her. I know I shall be told that this is incredible--but it is incredible to be as spiteful and stupid as I was; it may be added that it was strange I should not love her, or at any rate, appreciate her love. Why is it strange? In the first place, by then I was incapable of love, for I repeat, with me loving meant tyrannising and showing my moral superiority. I have never in my life been able to imagine any other sort of love, and have nowadays come to the point of sometimes thinking that love really consists in the right-- freely given by the beloved object--to tyrannise over her. Even in my underground dreams I did not imagine love except as a struggle. I began it always with hatred and ended it with moral subjugation, and afterwards I never knew what to do with the subjugated object. And what is there to wonder at in that, since I had succeeded in so corrupting myself, since I was so out of touch with "real life," as to have actually thought of reproaching her, and putting her to shame for having come to me to hear "fine sentiments"; and did not even guess that she had come not to hear fine sentiments, but to love me, because to a woman all reformation, all salvation from any sort of ruin, and all moral renewal is included in love and can only show itself in that form. I did not hate her so much, however, when I was running about the room and peeping through the crack in the screen. I was only insufferably oppressed by her being here. I wanted her to disappear. I wanted "peace," to be left alone in my underground world. Real life oppressed me with its novelty so much that I could hardly breathe. But several minutes passed and she still remained, without stirring, as though she were unconscious. I had the shamelessness to tap softly at the screen as though to remind her .... She started, sprang up, and flew to seek her kerchief, her hat, her coat, as though making her escape from me .... Two minutes later she came from behind the screen and looked with heavy eyes at me. I gave a spiteful grin, which was forced, however, to KEEP UP APPEARANCES, and I turned away from her eyes. "Good-bye," she said, going towards the door. I ran up to her, seized her hand, opened it, thrust something in it and closed it again. Then I turned at once and dashed away in haste to the other corner of the room to avoid seeing, anyway .... I did mean a moment since to tell a lie--to write that I did this accidentally, not knowing what I was doing through foolishness, through losing my head. But I don't want to lie, and so I will say straight out that I opened her hand and put the money in it ... from spite. It came into my head to do this while I was running up and down the room and she was sitting behind the screen. But this I can say for certain: though I did that cruel thing purposely, it was not an impulse from the heart, but came from my evil brain. This cruelty was so affected, so purposely made up, so completely a product of the brain, of books, that I could not even keep it up a minute--first I dashed away to avoid seeing her, and then in shame and despair rushed after Liza. I opened the door in the passage and began listening. "Liza! Liza!" I cried on the stairs, but in a low voice, not boldly. There was no answer, but I fancied I heard her footsteps, lower down on the stairs. "Liza!" I cried, more loudly. No answer. But at that minute I heard the stiff outer glass door open heavily with a creak and slam violently; the sound echoed up the stairs. She had gone. I went back to my room in hesitation. I felt horribly oppressed. I stood still at the table, beside the chair on which she had sat and looked aimlessly before me. A minute passed, suddenly I started; straight before me on the table I saw .... In short, I saw a crumpled blue five- rouble note, the one I had thrust into her hand a minute before. It was the same note; it could be no other, there was no other in the flat. So she had managed to fling it from her hand on the table at the moment when I had dashed into the further corner. Well! I might have expected that she would do that. Might I have expected it? No, I was such an egoist, I was so lacking in respect for my fellow-creatures that I could not even imagine she would do so. I could not endure it. A minute later I flew like a madman to dress, flinging on what I could at random and ran headlong after her. She could not have got two hundred paces away when I ran out into the street. It was a still night and the snow was coming down in masses and falling almost perpendicularly, covering the pavement and the empty street as though with a pillow. There was no one in the street, no sound was to be heard. The street lamps gave a disconsolate and useless glimmer. I ran two hundred paces to the cross-roads and stopped short. Where had she gone? And why was I running after her? Why? To fall down before her, to sob with remorse, to kiss her feet, to entreat her forgiveness! I longed for that, my whole breast was being rent to pieces, and never, never shall I recall that minute with indifference. But--what for? I thought. Should I not begin to hate her, perhaps, even tomorrow, just because I had kissed her feet today? Should I give her happiness? Had I not recognised that day, for the hundredth time, what I was worth? Should I not torture her? I stood in the snow, gazing into the troubled darkness and pondered this. "And will it not be better?" I mused fantastically, afterwards at home, stifling the living pang of my heart with fantastic dreams. "Will it not be better that she should keep the resentment of the insult for ever? Resentment--why, it is purification; it is a most stinging and painful consciousness! Tomorrow I should have defiled her soul and have exhausted her heart, while now the feeling of insult will never die in her heart, and however loathsome the filth awaiting her--the feeling of insult will elevate and purify her ... by hatred ... h'm! ... perhaps, too, by forgiveness .... Will all that make things easier for her though? ..." And, indeed, I will ask on my own account here, an idle question: which is better--cheap happiness or exalted sufferings? Well, which is better? So I dreamed as I sat at home that evening, almost dead with the pain in my soul. Never had I endured such suffering and remorse, yet could there have been the faintest doubt when I ran out from my lodging that I should turn back half-way? I never met Liza again and I have heard nothing of her. I will add, too, that I remained for a long time afterwards pleased with the phrase about the benefit from resentment and hatred in spite of the fact that I almost fell ill from misery. . . . . . Even now, so many years later, all this is somehow a very evil memory. I have many evil memories now, but ... hadn't I better end my "Notes" here? I believe I made a mistake in beginning to write them, anyway I have felt ashamed all the time I've been writing this story; so it's hardly literature so much as a corrective punishment. Why, to tell long stories, showing how I have spoiled my life through morally rotting in my corner, through lack of fitting environment, through divorce from real life, and rankling spite in my underground world, would certainly not be interesting; a novel needs a hero, and all the traits for an anti-hero are EXPRESSLY gathered together here, and what matters most, it all produces an unpleasant impression, for we are all divorced from life, we are all cripples, every one of us, more or less. We are so divorced from it that we feel at once a sort of loathing for real life, and so cannot bear to be reminded of it. Why, we have come almost to looking upon real life as an effort, almost as hard work, and we are all privately agreed that it is better in books. And why do we fuss and fume sometimes? Why are we perverse and ask for something else? We don't know what ourselves. It would be the worse for us if our petulant prayers were answered. Come, try, give any one of us, for instance, a little more independence, untie our hands, widen the spheres of our activity, relax the control and we ... yes, I assure you ... we should be begging to be under control again at once. I know that you will very likely be angry with me for that, and will begin shouting and stamping. Speak for yourself, you will say, and for your miseries in your underground holes, and don't dare to say all of us-- excuse me, gentlemen, I am not justifying myself with that "all of us." As for what concerns me in particular I have only in my life carried to an extreme what you have not dared to carry halfway, and what's more, you have taken your cowardice for good sense, and have found comfort in deceiving yourselves. So that perhaps, after all, there is more life in me than in you. Look into it more carefully! Why, we don't even know what living means now, what it is, and what it is called? Leave us alone without books and we shall be lost and in confusion at once. We shall not know what to join on to, what to cling to, what to love and what to hate, what to respect and what to despise. We are oppressed at being men--men with a real individual body and blood, we are ashamed of it, we think it a disgrace and try to contrive to be some sort of impossible generalised man. We are stillborn, and for generations past have been begotten, not by living fathers, and that suits us better and better. We are developing a taste for it. Soon we shall contrive to be born somehow from an idea. But enough; I don't want to write more from "Underground." [The notes of this paradoxalist do not end here, however. He could not refrain from going on with them, but it seems to us that we may stop here. PART I I. Towards the end of November, during a thaw, at nine o'clock one morning, a train on the Warsaw and Petersburg railway was approaching the latter city at full speed. The morning was so damp and misty that it was only with great difficulty that the day succeeded in breaking; and it was impossible to distinguish anything more than a few yards away from the carriage windows. Some of the passengers by this particular train were returning from abroad; but the third-class carriages were the best filled, chiefly with insignificant persons of various occupations and degrees, picked up at the different stations nearer town. All of them seemed weary, and most of them had sleepy eyes and a shivering expression, while their complexions generally appeared to have taken on the colour of the fog outside. When day dawned, two passengers in one of the third-class carriages found themselves opposite each other. Both were young fellows, both were rather poorly dressed, both had remarkable faces, and both were evidently anxious to start a conversation. If they had but known why, at this particular moment, they were both remarkable persons, they would undoubtedly have wondered at the strange chance which had set them down opposite to one another in a third-class carriage of the Warsaw Railway Company. One of them was a young fellow of about twenty-seven, not tall, with black curling hair, and small, grey, fiery eyes. His nose was broad and flat, and he had high cheek bones; his thin lips were constantly compressed into an impudent, ironical--it might almost be called a malicious--smile; but his forehead was high and well formed, and atoned for a good deal of the ugliness of the lower part of his face. A special feature of this physiognomy was its death-like pallor, which gave to the whole man an indescribably emaciated appearance in spite of his hard look, and at the same time a sort of passionate and suffering expression which did not harmonize with his impudent, sarcastic smile and keen, self-satisfied bearing. He wore a large fur--or rather astrachan--overcoat, which had kept him warm all night, while his neighbour had been obliged to bear the full severity of a Russian November night entirely unprepared. His wide sleeveless mantle with a large cape to it--the sort of cloak one sees upon travellers during the winter months in Switzerland or North Italy--was by no means adapted to the long cold journey through Russia, from Eydkuhnen to St. Petersburg. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 2 The wearer of this cloak was a young fellow, also of about twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age, slightly above the middle height, very fair, with a thin, pointed and very light coloured beard; his eyes were large and blue, and had an intent look about them, yet that heavy expression which some people affirm to be a peculiarity. as well as evidence, of an epileptic subject. His face was decidedly a pleasant one for all that; refined, but quite colourless, except for the circumstance that at this moment it was blue with cold. He held a bundle made up of an old faded silk handkerchief that apparently contained all his travelling wardrobe, and wore thick shoes and gaiters, his whole appearance being very un-Russian. His black-haired neighbour inspected these peculiarities, having nothing better to do, and at length remarked, with that rude enjoyment of the discomforts of others which the common classes so often show: "Cold?" "Very," said his neighbour, readily. "and this is a thaw, too. Fancy if it had been a hard frost! I never thought it would be so cold in the old country. I've grown quite out of the way of it." "What, been abroad, I suppose?" "Yes, straight from Switzerland." "Wheugh! my goodness!" The black-haired young fellow whistled, and then laughed. The conversation proceeded. The readiness of the fair-haired young man in the cloak to answer all his opposite neighbour's questions was surprising. He seemed to have no suspicion of any impertinence or inappropriateness in the fact of such questions being put to him. Replying to them, he made known to the inquirer that he certainly had been long absent from Russia, more than four years; that he had been sent abroad for his health; that he had suffered from some strange nervous malady--a kind of epilepsy, with convulsive spasms. His interlocutor burst out laughing several times at his answers; and more than ever, when to the question, " whether he had been cured?" the patient replied: "No, they did not cure me." "Hey! that's it! You stumped up your money for nothing, and we believe in those fellows, here!" remarked the black-haired individual, sarcastically. "Gospel truth, sir, Gospel truth!" exclaimed another passenger, a shabbily dressed man of about forty, who looked like a clerk, and possessed a red nose and a very blotchy face. "Gospel truth! All they do is to get hold of our good Russian money free, gratis, and for nothing. " "Oh, but you're quite wrong in my particular instance," said the Swiss patient, quietly. "Of course I can't argue the matter, because I know only my own case; but my doctor gave me money--and he had very little--to pay my journey back, besides having kept me at his own expense, while there, for nearly two years." "Why? Was there no one else to pay for you?" asked the black- haired one. "No--Mr. Pavlicheff, who had been supporting me there, died a couple of years ago. I wrote to Mrs. General Epanchin at the time (she is a distant relative of mine), but she did not answer my letter. And so eventually I came back." "And where have you come to?" "That is--where am I going to stay? I--I really don't quite know yet, I--" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 3 Both the listeners laughed again. "I suppose your whole set-up is in that bundle, then?" asked the first. "I bet anything it is!" exclaimed the red-nosed passenger, with extreme satisfaction, "and that he has precious little in the luggage van!--though of course poverty is no crime--we must remember that!" It appeared that it was indeed as they had surmised. The young fellow hastened to admit the fact with wonderful readiness. "Your bundle has some importance, however," continued the clerk, when they had laughed their fill (it was observable that the subject of their mirth joined in the laughter when he saw them laughing); "for though I dare say it is not stuffed full of friedrichs d'or and louis d'or--judge from your costume and gaiters--still--if you can add to your possessions such a valuable property as a relation like Mrs. General Epanchin, then your bundle becomes a significant object at once. That is, of course, if you really are a relative of Mrs. Epanchin's, and have not made a little error through--well, absence of mind, which is very common to human beings; or, say--through a too luxuriant fancy?" "Oh, you are right again," said the fair-haired traveller, "for I really am ALMOST wrong when I say she and I are related. She is hardly a relation at all; so little, in fact, that I was not in the least surprised to have no answer to my letter. I expected as much." "H'm! you spent your postage for nothing, then. H'm! you are candid, however--and that is commendable. H'm! Mrs. Epanchin--oh yes! a most eminent person. I know her. As for Mr. Pavlicheff, who supported you in Switzerland, I know him too--at least, if it was Nicolai Andreevitch of that name? A fine fellow he was--and had a property of four thousand souls in his day." "Yes, Nicolai Andreevitch--that was his name," and the young fellow looked earnestly and with curiosity at the all-knowing gentleman with the red nose. This sort of character is met with pretty frequently in a certain class. They are people who know everyone--that is, they know where a man is employed, what his salary is, whom he knows, whom he married, what money his wife had, who are his cousins, and second cousins, etc., etc. These men generally have about a hundred pounds a year to live on, and they spend their whole time and talents in the amassing of this style of knowledge, which they reduce--or raise--to the standard of a science. During the latter part of the conversation the black-haired young man had become very impatient. He stared out of the window, and fidgeted, and evidently longed for the end of the journey. He was very absent; he would appear to listen-and heard nothing; and he would laugh of a sudden, evidently with no idea of what he was laughing about. "Excuse me," said the red-nosed man to the young fellow with the bundle, rather suddenly; "whom have I the honour to be talking to?" "Prince Lef Nicolaievitch Muishkin," replied the latter, with perfect readiness. "Prince Muishkin? Lef Nicolaievitch? H'm! I don't know, I'm sure! I may say I have never heard of such a person," said the clerk, thoughtfully. "At least, the name, I admit, is historical. Karamsin must mention the family name, of course, in his history- -but as an individual--one never hears of any Prince Muishkin nowadays." "Of course not," replied the prince; "there are none, except myself. I believe I am the last and only one. As to by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 4 my forefathers, they have always been a poor lot; my own father was a sublieutenant in the army. I don't know how Mrs. Epanchin comes into the Muishkin family, but she is descended from the Princess Muishkin, and she, too, is the last of her line." "And did you learn science and all that, with your professor over there?" asked the black-haired passenger. "Oh yes--I did learn a little, but--" "I've never learned anything whatever," said the other. "Oh, but I learned very little, you know!" added the prince, as though excusing himself. "They could not teach me very much on account of my illness. " "Do you know the Rogojins?" asked his questioner, abruptly. "No, I don't--not at all! I hardly know anyone in Russia. Why, is that your name?" "Yes, I am Rogojin, Parfen Rogojin." "Parfen Rogojin? dear me--then don't you belong to those very Rogojins, perhaps--" began the clerk, with a very perceptible increase of civility in his tone. "Yes--those very ones," interrupted Rogojin, impatiently, and with scant courtesy. I may remark that he had not once taken any notice of the blotchy-faced passenger, and had hitherto addressed all his remarks direct to the prince. "Dear me--is it possible?" observed the clerk, while his face assumed an expression of great deference and servility--if not of absolute alarm: "what, a son of that very Semen Rogojin-- hereditary honourable citizen--who died a month or so ago and left two million and a half of roubles?" "And how do YOU know that he left two million and a half of roubles?" asked Rogojin, disdainfully, and no deigning so much as to look at the other. "However, it's true enough that my father died a month ago, and that here am I returning from Pskoff, a month after, with hardly a boot to my foot. They've treated me like a dog! I've been ill of fever at Pskoff the whole time, and not a line, nor farthing of money, have I received from my mother or my confounded brother!" "And now you'll have a million roubles, at least--goodness gracious me!" exclaimed the clerk, rubbing his hands. "Five weeks since, I was just like yourself," continued Rogojin, addressing the prince, "with nothing but a bundle and the clothes I wore. I ran away from my father and came to Pskoff to my aunt's house, where I caved in at once with fever, and he went and died while I was away. All honour to my respected father's memory--but he uncommonly nearly killed me, all the same. Give you my word, prince, if I hadn't cut and run then, when I did, he'd have murdered me like a dog." "I suppose you angered him somehow?" asked the prince, looking at the millionaire with considerable curiosity But though there may have been something remarkable in the fact that this man was heir to millions of roubles there was something about him which surprised and interested the prince more than that. Rogojin, too, seemed to have taken up the conversation with unusual alacrity it appeared that he was still in a considerable state of excitement, if not absolutely feverish, and was in real need of someone to talk to for the mere sake of talking, as safety-valve to his agitation. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 5 As for his red-nosed neighbour, the latter--since the information as to the identity of Rogojin--hung over him, seemed to be living on the honey of his words and in the breath of his nostrils, catching at every syllable as though it were a pearl of great price. "Oh, yes; I angered him--I certainly did anger him," replied Rogojin. "But what puts me out so is my brother. Of course my mother couldn't do anything--she's too old--and whatever brother Senka says is law for her! But why couldn't he let me know? He sent a telegram, they say. What's the good of a telegram? It frightened my aunt so that she sent it back to the office unopened, and there it's been ever since! It's only thanks to Konief that I heard at all; he wrote me all about it. He says my brother cut off the gold tassels from my father's coffin, at night because they're worth a lot of money!' says he. Why, I can get him sent off to Siberia for that alone, if I like; it's sacrilege. Here, you--scarecrow!" he added, addressing the clerk at his side, "is it sacrilege or not, by law?' "Sacrilege, certainly--certainly sacrilege," said the latter. "And it's Siberia for sacrilege, isn't it?" "Undoubtedly so; Siberia, of course!" "They will think that I'm still ill," continued Rogojin to the prince, "but I sloped off quietly, seedy as I was, took the train and came away. Aha, brother Senka, you'll have to open your gates and let me in, my boy! I know he told tales about me to my father--I know that well enough but I certainly did rile my father about Nastasia Philipovna that's very sure, and that was my own doing." "Nastasia Philipovna?" said the clerk, as though trying to think out something. "Come, you know nothing about HER," said Rogojin, impatiently. "And supposing I do know something?" observed the other, triumphantly. "Bosh! there are plenty of Nastasia Philipovnas. And what an impertinent beast you are!" he added angrily. "I thought some creature like you would hang on to me as soon as I got hold of my money. " "Oh, but I do know, as it happens," said the clerk in an aggravating manner. "Lebedeff knows all about her. You are pleased to reproach me, your excellency, but what if I prove that I am right after all? Nastasia Phillpovna's family name is Barashkoff--I know, you see-and she is a very well known lady, indeed, and comes of a good family, too. She is connected with one Totski, Afanasy Ivanovitch, a man of considerable property, a director of companies, and so on, and a great friend of General Epanchin, who is interested in the same matters as he is." "My eyes!" said Rogojin, really surprised at last. "The devil take the fellow, how does he know that?" "Why, he knows everything--Lebedeff knows everything! I was a month or two with Lihachof after his father died, your excellency, and while he was knocking about--he's in the debtor's prison now--I was with him, and he couldn't do a thing without Lebedeff; and I got to know Nastasia Philipovna and several people at that time." "Nastasia Philipovna? Why, you don't mean to say that she and Lihachof--" cried Rogojin, turning quite pale. "No, no, no, no, no! Nothing of the sort, I assure you!" said Lebedeff, hastily. "Oh dear no, not for the world! Totski's the only man with any chance there. Oh, no! He takes her to his box at the opera at the French theatre of an evening, and the officers and people all look at her and say, 'By Jove, there's the famous Nastasia by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 6 Philipovna!' but no one ever gets any further than that, for there is nothing more to say." "Yes, it's quite true," said Rogojin, frowning gloomily; "so Zaleshoff told me. I was walking about the Nefsky one fine day, prince, in my father's old coat, when she suddenly came out of a shop and stepped into her carriage. I swear I was all of a blaze at once. Then I met Zaleshoff--looking like a hair-dresser's assistant, got up as fine as I don't know who, while I looked like a tinker. 'Don't flatter yourself, my boy,' said he; 'she's not for such as you; she's a princess, she is, and her name is Nastasia Philipovna Barashkoff, and she lives with Totski, who wishes to get rid of her because he's growing rather old--fifty- five or so--and wants to marry a certain beauty, the loveliest woman in all Petersburg.' And then he told me that I could see Nastasia Philipovna at the opera-house that evening, if I liked, and described which was her box. Well, I'd like to see my father allowing any of us to go to the theatre; he'd sooner have killed us, any day. However, I went for an hour or so and saw Nastasia Philipovna, and I never slept a wink all night after. Next morning my father happened to give me two government loan bonds to sell, worth nearly five thousand roubles each. 'Sell them,' said he, 'and then take seven thousand five hundred roubles to the office, give them to the cashier, and bring me back the rest of the ten thousand, without looking in anywhere on the way; look sharp, I shall be waiting for you.' Well, I sold the bonds, but I didn't take the seven thousand roubles to the office; I went straight to the English shop and chose a pair of earrings, with a diamond the size of a nut in each. They cost four hundred roubles more than I had, so I gave my name, and they trusted me. With the earrings I went at once to Zaleshoff's. 'Come on!' I said, 'come on to Nastasia Philipovna's,' and off we went without more ado. I tell you I hadn't a notion of what was about me or before me or below my feet all the way; I saw nothing whatever. We went straight into her drawing-room, and then she came out to us. "I didn't say right out who I was, but Zaleshoff said: 'From Parfen Rogojin, in memory of his first meeting with you yesterday; be so kind as to accept these!' "She opened the parcel, looked at the earrings, and laughed. "'Thank your friend Mr. Rogojin for his kind attention,' says she, and bowed and went off. Why didn't I die there on the spot? The worst of it all was, though, that the beast Zaleshoff got all the credit of it! I was short and abominably dressed, and stood and stared in her face and never said a word, because I was shy, like an ass! And there was he all in the fashion, pomaded and dressed out, with a smart tie on, bowing and scraping; and I bet anything she took him for me all the while! "'Look here now,' I said, when we came out, 'none of your interference here after this-do you understand?' He laughed: 'And how are you going to settle up with your father?' says he. I thought I might as well jump into the Neva at once without going home first; but it struck me that I wouldn't, after all, and I went home feeling like one of the damned." "My goodness!" shivered the clerk. "And his father," he added, for the prince's instruction, "and his father would have given a man a ticket to the other world for ten roubles any day--not to speak of ten thousand!" The prince observed Rogojin with great curiosity; he seemed paler than ever at this moment. "What do you know about it?" cried the latter. "Well, my father learned the whole story at once, and Zaleshoff blabbed it all over the town besides. So he took me upstairs and locked me up, and swore at me for an hour. 'This is only a foretaste,' says he; 'wait a bit till night comes, and I'll come back and talk to you again.' "Well, what do you think? The old fellow went straight off to Nastasia Philipovna, touched the floor with his forehead, and began blubbering and beseeching her on his knees to give him back the diamonds. So after awhile she brought the box and flew out at him. 'There,' she says, 'take your earrings, you wretched old miser; although they are ten times dearer than their value to me now that I know what it must have cost Parfen to get them! Give Parfen my compliments,' she says, 'and thank him very much!' Well, I meanwhile had borrowed by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 7 twenty-five roubles from a friend, and off I went to Pskoff to my aunt's. The old woman there lectured me so that I left the house and went on a drinking tour round the public-houses of the place. I was in a high fever when I got to Pskoff, and by nightfall I was lying delirious in the streets somewhere or other!" "Oho! we'll make Nastasia Philipovna sing another song now!" giggled Lebedeff, rubbing his hands with glee. "Hey, my boy, we'll get her some proper earrings now! We'll get her such earrings that--" "Look here," cried Rogojin, seizing him fiercely by the arm, "look here, if you so much as name Nastasia Philipovna again, I'll tan your hide as sure as you sit there!" "Aha! do--by all means! if you tan my hide you won't turn me away from your society. You'll bind me to you, with your lash, for ever. Ha, ha! here we are at the station, though." Sure enough, the train was just steaming in as he spoke. Though Rogojin had declared that he left Pskoff secretly, a large collection of friends had assembled to greet him, and did so with profuse waving of hats and shouting. "Why, there's Zaleshoff here, too!" he muttered, gazing at the scene with a sort of triumphant but unpleasant smile. Then he suddenly turned to the prince: "Prince, I don't know why I have taken a fancy to you; perhaps because I met you just when I did. But no, it can't be that, for I met this fellow " (nodding at Lebedeff) "too, and I have not taken a fancy to him by any means. Come to see me, prince; we'll take off those gaiters of yours and dress you up in a smart fur coat, the best we can buy. You shall have a dress coat, best quality, white waistcoat, anything you like, and your pocket shall be full of money. Come, and you shall go with me to Nastasia Philipovna's. Now then will you come or no?" "Accept, accept, Prince Lef Nicolaievitch" said Lebedef solemnly; "don't let it slip! Accept, quick!" Prince Muishkin rose and stretched out his hand courteously, while he replied with some cordiality: "I will come with the greatest pleasure, and thank you very much for taking a fancy to me. I dare say I may even come today if I have time, for I tell you frankly that I like you very much too. I liked you especially when you told us about the diamond earrings; but I liked you before that as well, though you have such a dark-clouded sort of face. Thanks very much for the offer of clothes and a fur coat; I certainly shall require both clothes and coat very soon. As for money, I have hardly a copeck about me at this moment." "You shall have lots of money; by the evening I shall have plenty; so come along!" "That's true enough, he'll have lots before evening!" put in Lebedeff. "But, look here, are you a great hand with the ladies? Let's know that first?" asked Rogojin. "Oh no, oh no! said the prince; "I couldn't, you know--my illness--I hardly ever saw a soul." "H'm! well--here, you fellow-you can come along with me now if you like!" cried Rogojin to Lebedeff, and so they all left the carriage. Lebedeff had his desire. He went off with the noisy group of Rogojin's friends towards the Voznesensky, while the prince's route lay towards the Litaynaya. It was damp and wet. The prince asked his way of passers-by, and finding that he was a couple of miles or so from his destination, he determined to take a droshky. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 8 II. General Epanchin lived in his own house near the Litaynaya. Besides this large residence--five-sixths of which was let in flats and lodgings-the general was owner of another enormous house in the Sadovaya bringing in even more rent than the first. Besides these houses he had a delightful little estate just out of town, and some sort of factory in another part of the city. General Epanchin, as everyone knew, had a good deal to do with certain government monopolies; he was also a voice, and an important one, in many rich public companies of various descriptions; in fact, he enjoyed the reputation of being a well- to-do man of busy habits, many ties, and affluent means. He had made himself indispensable in several quarters, amongst others in his department of the government; and yet it was a known fact that Fedor Ivanovitch Epanchin was a man of no education whatever, and had absolutely risen from the ranks. This last fact could, of course, reflect nothing but credit upon the general; and yet, though unquestionably a sagacious man, he had his own little weaknesses-very excusable ones,--one of which was a dislike to any allusion to the above circumstance. He was undoubtedly clever. For instance, he made a point of never asserting himself when he would gain more by keeping in the background; and in consequence many exalted personages valued him principally for his humility and simplicity, and because "he knew his place." And yet if these good people could only have had a peep into the mind of this excellent fellow who "knew his place" so well! The fact is that, in spite of his knowledge of the world and his really remarkable abilities, he always liked to appear to be carrying out other people's ideas rather than his own. And also, his luck seldom failed him, even at cards, for which he had a passion that he did not attempt to conceal. He played for high stakes, and moved, altogether, in very varied society. As to age, General Epanchin was in the very prime of life; that is, about fifty-five years of age,--the flowering time of existence, when real enjoyment of life begins. His healthy appearance, good colour, sound, though discoloured teeth, sturdy figure, preoccupied air during business hours, and jolly good humour during his game at cards in the evening, all bore witness to his success in life, and combined to make existence a bed of roses to his excellency. The general was lord of a flourishing family, consisting of his wife and three grown-up daughters. He had married young, while still a lieutenant, his wife being a girl of about his own age, who possessed neither beauty nor education, and who brought him no more than fifty souls of landed property, which little estate served, however, as a nest-egg for far more important accumulations. The general never regretted his early marriage, or regarded it as a foolish youthful escapade; and he so respected and feared his wife that he was very near loving her. Mrs. Epanchin came of the princely stock of Muishkin, which if not a brilliant, was, at all events, a decidedly ancient family; and she was extremely proud of her descent. With a few exceptions, the worthy couple had lived through their long union very happily. While still young the wife had been able to make important friends among the aristocracy, partly by virtue of her family descent, and partly by her own exertions; while, in after life, thanks to their wealth and to the position of her husband in the service, she took her place among the higher circles as by right. During these last few years all three of the general's daughters- Alexandra, Adelaida, and Aglaya--had grown up and matured. Of course they were only Epanchins, but their mother's family was noble; they might expect considerable fortunes; their father had hopes of attaining to very high rank indeed in his country's service-all of which was satisfactory. All three of the girls were decidedly pretty, even the eldest, Alexandra, who was just twenty-five years old. The middle daughter was now twenty-three, while the youngest, Aglaya, was twenty. This youngest girl was absolutely a beauty, and had begun of late to attract considerable attention in society. But this was not all, for every one of the three was clever, well educated, and accomplished. It was a matter of general knowledge that the three girls were very fond of one another, and supported each other in every way; it was even said that the two elder ones had made certain sacrifices for the sake of the idol of the household, Aglaya. In society they not only disliked asserting themselves, but were actually retiring. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 9 Certainly no one could blame them for being too arrogant or haughty, and yet everybody was well aware that they were proud and quite understood their own value. The eldest was musical, while the second was a clever artist, which fact she had concealed until lately. In a word, the world spoke well of the girls; but they were not without their enemies, and occasionally people talked with horror of the number of books they had read. They were in no hurry to marry. They liked good society, but were not too keen about it. All this was the more remarkable, because everyone was well aware of the hopes and aims of their parents. It was about eleven o'clock in the forenoon when the prince rang the bell at General Epanchin's door. The general lived on the first floor or flat of the house, as modest a lodging as his position permitted. A liveried servant opened the door, and the prince was obliged to enter into long explanations with this gentleman, who, from the first glance, looked at him and his bundle with grave suspicion. At last, however, on the repeated positive assurance that he really was Prince Muishkin, and must absolutely see the general on business, the bewildered domestic showed him into a little ante-chamber leading to a waiting-room that adjoined the general's study, there handing him over to another servant, whose duty it was to be in this ante-chamber all the morning, and announce visitors to the general. This second individual wore a dress coat, and was some forty years of age; he was the general's special study servant, and well aware of his own importance. "Wait in the next room, please; and leave your bundle here," said the door-keeper, as he sat down comfortably in his own easy-chair in the ante-chamber. He looked at the prince in severe surprise as the latter settled himself in another chair alongside, with his bundle on his knees. "If you don't mind, I would rather sit here with you," said the prince; "I should prefer it to sitting in there." "Oh, but you can't stay here. You are a visitor--a guest, so to speak. Is it the general himself you wish to see?" The man evidently could not take in the idea of such a shabby- looking visitor, and had decided to ask once more. "Yes--I have business--" began the prince. "I do not ask you what your business may be, all I have to do is to announce you; and unless the secretary comes in here I cannot do that." The man's suspicions seemed to increase more and more. The prince was too unlike the usual run of daily visitors; and although the general certainly did receive, on business, all sorts and conditions of men, yet in spite of this fact the servant felt great doubts on the subject of this particular visitor. The presence of the secretary as an intermediary was, he judged, essential in this case. "Surely you--are from abroad?" he inquired at last, in a confused sort of way. He had begun his sentence intending to say, "Surely you are not Prince Muishkin, are you?" "Yes, straight from the train! Did not you intend to say, 'Surely you are not Prince Muishkin?' just now, but refrained out of politeness ?" "H'm!" grunted the astonished servant. "I assure you I am not deceiving you; you shall not have to answer for me. As to my being dressed like this, and carrying a bundle, there's nothing surprising in that--the fact is, my circumstances are not particularly rosy at this moment." "H'm!--no, I'm not afraid of that, you see; I have to announce you, that's all. The secretary will be out by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 10 directly-that is, unless you--yes, that's the rub--unless you--come, you must allow me to ask you--you've not come to beg, have you?" "Oh dear no, you can be perfectly easy on that score. I have quite another matter on hand." "You must excuse my asking, you know. Your appearance led me to think--but just wait for the secretary; the general is busy now, but the secretary is sure to come out." "Oh--well, look here, if I have some time to wait, would you mind telling me, is there any place about where I could have a smoke? I have my pipe and tobacco with me." "SMOKE?" said the man, in shocked but disdainful surprise, blinking his eyes at the prince as though he could not believe his senses." No, sir, you cannot smoke here, and I wonder you are not ashamed of the very suggestion. Ha, ha! a cool idea that, I declare!" "Oh, I didn't mean in this room! I know I can't smoke here, of course. I'd adjourn to some other room, wherever you like to show me to. You see, I'm used to smoking a good deal, and now I haven't had a puff for three hours; however, just as you like." "Now how on earth am I to announce a man like that?" muttered the servant. "In the first place, you've no right in here at all; you ought to be in the waiting-room, because you're a sort of visitor--a guest, in fact--and I shall catch it for this. Look here, do you intend to take up you abode with us?" he added, glancing once more at the prince's bundle, which evidently gave him no peace. "No, I don't think so. I don't think I should stay even if they were to invite me. I've simply come to make their acquaintance, and nothing more." "Make their acquaintance?" asked the man, in amazement, and with redoubled suspicion. "Then why did you say you had business with the general?" "Oh well, very little business. There is one little matter--some advice I am going to ask him for; but my principal object is simply to introduce myself, because I am Prince Muishkin, and Madame Epanchin is the last of her branch of the house, and besides herself and me there are no other Muishkins left." "What--you're a relation then, are you?" asked the servant, so bewildered that he began to feel quite alarmed. "Well, hardly so. If you stretch a point, we are relations, of course, but so distant that one cannot really take cognizance of it. I once wrote to your mistress from abroad, but she did not reply. However, I have thought it right to make acquaintance with her on my arrival. I am telling you all this in order to ease your mind, for I see you are still far from comfortable on my account. All you have to do is to announce me as Prince Muishkin, and the object of my visit will be plain enough. If I am received--very good; if not, well, very good again. But they are sure to receive me, I should think; Madame Epanchin will naturally be curious to see the only remaining representative of her family. She values her Muishkin descent very highly, if I am rightly informed." The prince's conversation was artless and confiding to a degree, and the servant could not help feeling that as from visitor to common serving-man this state of things was highly improper. His conclusion was that one of two things must be the explanation-- either that this was a begging impostor, or that the prince, if prince he were, was simply a fool, without the slightest ambition; for a sensible prince with any ambition would certainly not wait about in ante-rooms with servants, and talk of his own private affairs like this. In either case, how was he to announce this singular visitor? by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 11 "I really think I must request you to step into the next room!" he said, with all the insistence he could muster. "Why? If I had been sitting there now, I should not have had the opportunity of making these personal explanations. I see you are still uneasy about me and keep eyeing my cloak and bundle. Don't you think you might go in yourself now, without waiting for the secretary to come out?" "No, no! I can't announce a visitor like yourself without the secretary. Besides the general said he was not to be disturbed-- he is with the Colonel C--. Gavrila Ardalionovitch goes in without announcing." "Who may that be? a clerk?" "What? Gavrila Ardalionovitch? Oh no; he belongs to one of the companies. Look here, at all events put your bundle down, here." "Yes, I will if I may; and--can I take off my cloak" "Of course; you can't go in THERE with it on, anyhow." The prince rose and took off his mantle, revealing a neat enough morning costume--a little worn, but well made. He wore a steel watch chain and from this chain there hung a silver Geneva watch. Fool the prince might be, still, the general's servant felt that it was not correct for him to continue to converse thus with a visitor, in spite of the fact that the prince pleased him somehow. "And what time of day does the lady receive?" the latter asked, reseating himself in his old place. "Oh, that's not in my province! I believe she receives at any time; it depends upon the visitors. The dressmaker goes in at eleven. Gavrila Ardalionovitch is allowed much earlier than other people, too; he is even admitted to early lunch now and then." "It is much warmer in the rooms here than it is abroad at this season," observed the prince; " but it is much warmer there out of doors. As for the houses--a Russian can't live in them in the winter until he gets accustomed to them." "Don't they heat them at all?" "Well, they do heat them a little; but the houses and stoves are so different to ours." "H'm! were you long away?" "Four years! and I was in the same place nearly all the time,--in one village." "You must have forgotten Russia, hadn't you?" "Yes, indeed I had--a good deal; and, would you believe it, I often wonder at myself for not having forgotten how to speak Russian? Even now, as I talk to you, I keep saying to myself 'how well I am speaking it.' Perhaps that is partly why I am so talkative this morning. I assure you, ever since yesterday evening I have had the strongest desire to go on and on talking Russian." "H'm! yes; did you live in Petersburg in former years?" This good flunkey, in spite of his conscientious scruples, really could not resist continuing such a very genteel and agreeable conversation. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 12 "In Petersburg? Oh no! hardly at all, and now they say so much is changed in the place that even those who did know it well are obliged to relearn what they knew. They talk a good deal about the new law courts, and changes there, don't they?" "H'm! yes, that's true enough. Well now, how is the law over there, do they administer it more justly than here?" "Oh, I don't know about that! I've heard much that is good about our legal administration, too. There is no capital punishment here for one thing." "Is there over there?" "Yes--I saw an execution in France--at Lyons. Schneider took me over with him to see it." "What, did they hang the fellow?" "No, they cut off people's heads in France." "What did the fellow do?--yell?" "Oh no--it's the work of an instant. They put a man inside a frame and a sort of broad knife falls by machinery -they call the thing a guillotine-it falls with fearful force and weight-the head springs off so quickly that you can't wink your eye in between. But all the preparations are so dreadful. When they announce the sentence, you know, and prepare the criminal and tie his hands, and cart him off to the scaffold--that's the fearful part of the business. The people all crowd round--even women- though they don't at all approve of women looking on." "No, it's not a thing for women." "Of course not--of course not!--bah! The criminal was a fine intelligent fearless man; Le Gros was his name; and I may tell you--believe it or not, as you like--that when that man stepped upon the scaffold he CRIED, he did indeed,--he was as white as a bit of paper. Isn't it a dreadful idea that he should have cried --cried! Whoever heard of a grown man crying from fear--not a child, but a man who never had cried before--a grown man of forty-five years. Imagine what must have been going on in that man's mind at such a moment; what dreadful convulsions his whole spirit must have endured; it is an outrage on the soul that's what it is. Because it is said 'thou shalt not kill,' is he to be killed because he murdered some one else? No, it is not right, it's an impossible theory. I assure you, I saw the sight a month ago and it's dancing before my eyes to this moment. I dream of it, often." The prince had grown animated as he spoke, and a tinge of colour suffused his pale face, though his way of talking was as quiet as ever. The servant followed his words with sympathetic interest. Clearly he was not at all anxious to bring the conversation to an end. Who knows? Perhaps he too was a man of imagination and with some capacity for thought. "Well, at all events it is a good thing that there's no pain when the poor fellow's head flies off," he remarked. "Do you know, though," cried the prince warmly, "you made that remark now, and everyone says the same thing, and the machine is designed with the purpose of avoiding pain, this guillotine I mean; but a thought came into my head then: what if it be a bad plan after all? You may laugh at my idea, perhaps--but I could not help its occurring to me all the same. Now with the rack and tortures and so on--you suffer terrible pain of course; but then your torture is bodily pain only (although no doubt you have plenty of that) until you die. But HERE I should imagine the most terrible part of the whole punishment is, not the bodily pain at all--but the by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 13 certain knowledge that in an hour,--then in ten minutes, then in half a minute, then now--this very INSTANT--your soul must quit your body and that you will no longer be a man-- and that this is certain, CERTAIN! That's the point--the certainty of it. Just that instant when you place your head on the block and hear the iron grate over your head--then--that quarter of a second is the most awful of all. "This is not my own fantastical opinion--many people have thought the same; but I feel it so deeply that I'll tell you what I think. I believe that to execute a man for murder is to punish him immeasurably more dreadfully than is equivalent to his crime. A murder by sentence is far more dreadful than a murder committed by a criminal. The man who is attacked by robbers at night, in a dark wood, or anywhere, undoubtedly hopes and hopes that he may yet escape until the very moment of his death. There are plenty of instances of a man running away, or imploring for mercy--at all events hoping on in some degree--even after his throat was cut. But in the case of an execution, that last hope--having which it is so immeasurably less dreadful to die,--is taken away from the wretch and CERTAINTY substituted in its place! There is his sentence, and with it that terrible certainty that he cannot possibly escape death--which, I consider, must be the most dreadful anguish in the world. You may place a soldier before a cannon's mouth in battle, and fire upon him--and he will still hope. But read to that same soldier his death-sentence, and he will either go mad or burst into tears. Who dares to say that any man can suffer this without going mad? No, no! it is an abuse, a shame, it is unnecessary--why should such a thing exist? Doubtless there may be men who have been sentenced, who have suffered this mental anguish for a while and then have been reprieved; perhaps such men may have been able to relate their feelings afterwards. Our Lord Christ spoke of this anguish and dread. No! no! no! No man should be treated so, no man, no man!" The servant, though of course he could not have expressed all this as the prince did, still clearly entered into it and was greatly conciliated, as was evident from the increased amiability of his expression. "If you are really very anxious for a smoke," he remarked, "I think it might possibly be managed, if you are very quick about it. You see they might come out and inquire for you, and you wouldn't be on the spot. You see that door there? Go in there and you'll find a little room on the right; you can smoke there, only open the window, because I ought not to allow it really, and--." But there was no time, after all. A young fellow entered the ante-room at this moment, with a bundle of papers in his hand. The footman hastened to help him take off his overcoat. The new arrival glanced at the prince out of the corners of his eyes. "This gentleman declares, Gavrila Ardalionovitch," began the man, confidentially and almost familiarly, "that he is Prince Muishkin and a relative of Madame Epanchin's. He has just arrived from abroad, with nothing but a bundle by way of luggage--." The prince did not hear the rest, because at this point the servant continued his communication in a whisper. Gavrila Ardalionovitch listened attentively, and gazed at the prince with great curiosity. At last he motioned the man aside and stepped hurriedly towards the prince. "Are you Prince Muishkin?" he asked, with the greatest courtesy and amiability. He was a remarkably handsome young fellow of some twenty-eight summers, fair and of middle height; he wore a small beard, and his face was most intelligent. Yet his smile, in spite of its sweetness, was a little thin, if I may so call it, and showed his teeth too evenly; his gaze though decidedly good-humoured and ingenuous, was a trifle too inquisitive and intent to be altogether agreeable. "Probably when he is alone he looks quite different, and hardly smiles at all!" thought the prince. He explained about himself in a few words, very much the same as he had told the footman and Rogojin beforehand. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 14 Gavrila Ardalionovitch meanwhile seemed to be trying to recall something. "Was it not you, then, who sent a letter a year or less ago--from Switzerland, I think it was--to Elizabetha Prokofievna (Mrs. Epanchin)?" "It was." "Oh, then, of course they will remember who you are. You wish to see the general? I'll tell him at once--he will be free in a minute; but you--you had better wait in the ante-chamber,--hadn't you? Why is he here?" he added, severely, to the man. "I tell you, sir, he wished it himself!" At this moment the study door opened, and a military man, with a portfolio under his arm, came out talking loudly, and after bidding good-bye to someone inside, took his departure. "You there, Gania? cried a voice from the study, "come in here, will you?" Gavrila Ardalionovitch nodded to the prince and entered the room hastily. A couple of minutes later the door opened again and the affable voice of Gania cried: "Come in please, prince!" III. General Ivan Fedorovitch Epanchin was standing In the middle of the room, and gazed with great curiosity at the prince as he entered. He even advanced a couple of steps to meet him. The prince came forward and introduced himself. "Quite so," replied the general, "and what can I do for you?" "Oh, I have no special business; my principal object was to make your acquaintance. I should not like to disturb you. I do not know your times and arrangements here, you see, but I have only just arrived. I came straight from the station. I am come direct from Switzerland." The general very nearly smiled, but thought better of it and kept his smile back. Then he reflected, blinked his eyes, stared at his guest once more from head to foot; then abruptly motioned him to a chair, sat down himself, and waited with some impatience for the prince to speak. Gania stood at his table in the far corner of the room, turning over papers. "I have not much time for making acquaintances, as a rule," said the general, "but as, of course, you have your object in coming, I--" "I felt sure you would think I had some object in view when I resolved to pay you this visit," the prince interrupted; "but I give you my word, beyond the pleasure of making your acquaintance I had no personal object whatever." "The pleasure is, of course, mutual; but life is not all pleasure, as you are aware. There is such a thing as business, and I really do not see what possible reason there can be, or what we have in common to--" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 15 "Oh, there is no reason, of course, and I suppose there is nothing in common between us, or very little; for if I am Prince Muishkin, and your wife happens to be a member of my house, that can hardly be called a 'reason.' I quite understand that. And yet that was my whole motive for coming. You see I have not been in Russia for four years, and knew very little about anything when I left. I had been very ill for a long time, and I feel now the need of a few good friends. In fact, I have a certain question upon which I much need advice, and do not know whom to go to for it. I thought of your family when I was passing through Berlin. 'They are almost relations,' I said to myself,' so I'll begin with them; perhaps we may get on with each other, I with them and they with me, if they are kind people;' and I have heard that you are very kind people!" "Oh, thank you, thank you, I'm sure," replied the general, considerably taken aback. "May I ask where you have taken up your quarters?" "Nowhere, as yet." "What, straight from the station to my house? And how about your luggage?" "I only had a small bundle, containing linen, with me, nothing more. I can carry it in my hand, easily. There will be plenty of time to take a room in some hotel by the evening." "Oh, then you DO intend to take a room?" "Of course." "To judge from your words, you came straight to my house with the intention of staying there." "That could only have been on your invitation. I confess, however, that I should not have stayed here even if you had invited me, not for any particular reason, but because it is-- well, contrary to my practice and nature, somehow." "Oh, indeed! Then it is perhaps as well that I neither DID invite you, nor DO invite you now. Excuse me, prince, but we had better make this matter clear, once for all. We have just agreed that with regard to our relationship there is not much to be said, though, of course, it would have been very delightful to us to feel that such relationship did actually exist; therefore, perhaps--" "Therefore, perhaps I had better get up and go away?" said the prince, laughing merrily as he rose from his place; just as merrily as though the circumstances were by no means strained or difficult. "And I give you my word, general, that though I know nothing whatever of manners and customs of society, and how people live and all that, yet I felt quite sure that this visit of mine would end exactly as it has ended now. Oh, well, I suppose it's all right; especially as my letter was not answered. Well, good-bye, and forgive me for having disturbed you!" The prince's expression was so good-natured at this moment, and so entirely free from even a suspicion of unpleasant feeling was the smile with which he looked at the general as he spoke, that the latter suddenly paused, and appeared to gaze at his guest from quite a new point of view, all in an instant. "Do you know, prince," he said, in quite a different tone, "I do not know you at all, yet, and after all, Elizabetha Prokofievna would very likely be pleased to have a peep at a man of her own name. Wait a little, if you don't mind, and if you have time to spare?" "Oh, I assure you I've lots of time, my time is entirely my own!" And the prince immediately replaced his soft, round hat on the table. "I confess, I thought Elizabetha Prokofievna would very likely remember that I had written her a letter. Just now your servant--outside there--was dreadfully suspicious that I had come to beg of by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 16 you. I noticed that! Probably he has very strict instructions on that score; but I assure you I did not come to beg. I came to make some friends. But I am rather bothered at having disturbed you; that's all I care about.--" "Look here, prince," said the general, with a cordial smile, "if you really are the sort of man you appear to be, it may be a source of great pleasure to us to make your better acquaintance; but, you see, I am a very busy man, and have to be perpetually sitting here and signing papers, or off to see his excellency, or to my department, or somewhere; so that though I should be glad to see more of people, nice people--you see, I--however, I am sure you are so well brought up that you will see at once, and-- but how old are you, prince?" "Twenty-six." "No? I thought you very much younger." "Yes, they say I have a 'young' face. As to disturbing you I shall soon learn to avoid doing that, for I hate disturbing people. Besides, you and I are so differently constituted, I should think, that there must be very little in common between us. Not that I will ever believe there is NOTHING in common between any two people, as some declare is the case. I am sure people make a great mistake in sorting each other into groups, by appearances; but I am boring you, I see, you--" "Just two words: have you any means at all? Or perhaps you may be intending to undertake some sort of employment? Excuse my questioning you, but--" "Oh, my dear sir, I esteem and understand your kindness in putting the question. No; at present I have no means whatever, and no employment either, but I hope to find some. I was living on other people abroad. Schneider, the professor who treated me and taught me, too, in Switzerland, gave me just enough money for my journey, so that now I have but a few copecks left. There certainly is one question upon which I am anxious to have advice, but--" "Tell me, how do you intend to live now, and what are your plans?" interrupted the general. "I wish to work, somehow or other." "Oh yes, but then, you see, you are a philosopher. Have you any talents, or ability in any direction--that is, any that would bring in money and bread? Excuse me again--" "Oh, don't apologize. No, I don't think I have either talents or special abilities of any kind; on the contrary. I have always been an invalid and unable to learn much. As for bread, I should think--" The general interrupted once more with questions; while the prince again replied with the narrative we have heard before. It appeared that the general had known Pavlicheff; but why the latter had taken an interest in the prince, that young gentleman could not explain; probably by virtue of the old friendship with his father, he thought. The prince had been left an orphan when quite a little child, and Pavlicheff had entrusted him to an old lady, a relative of his own, living in the country, the child needing the fresh air and exercise of country life. He was educated, first by a governess, and afterwards by a tutor, but could not remember much about this time of his life. His fits were so frequent then, that they made almost an idiot of him (the prince used the expression "idiot" himself). Pavlicheff had met Professor Schneider in Berlin, and the latter had persuaded him to send the boy to Switzerland, to Schneider's establishment there, for the cure of his epilepsy, and, five years before this time, the prince was sent off. But Pavlicheff had died two or three years since, and Schneider had himself supported the young fellow, from that day to this, at his own expense. Although he had not quite cured him, he had greatly improved his condition; and now, at last, at the prince's own desire, and because of a certain by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 17 matter which came to the ears of the latter, Schneider had despatched the young man to Russia. The general was much astonished. "Then you have no one, absolutely NO one in Russia?" he asked. "No one, at present; but I hope to make friends; and then I have a letter from--" "At all events," put in the general, not listening to the news about the letter, "at all events, you must have learned SOMETHING, and your malady would not prevent your undertaking some easy work, in one of the departments, for instance? "Oh dear no, oh no! As for a situation, I should much like to find one for I am anxious to discover what I really am fit for. I have learned a good deal in the last four years, and, besides, I read a great many Russian books." "Russian books, indeed ? Then, of course, you can read and write quite correctly?" "Oh dear, yes!" "Capital! And your handwriting?" "Ah, there I am REALLY talented! I may say l am a real caligraphist. Let me write you something, just to show you," said the prince, with some excitement. "With pleasure! In fact, it is very necessary. I like your readiness, prince; in fact, I must say--I-I-like you very well, altogether," said the general. "What delightful writing materials you have here, such a lot of pencils and things, and what beautiful paper! It's a charming room altogether. I know that picture, it's a Swiss view. I'm sure the artist painted it from nature, and that I have seen the very place--" "Quite likely, though I bought it here. Gania, give the prince some paper. Here are pens and paper; now then, take this table. What's this?" the general continued to Gania, who had that moment taken a large photograph out of his portfolio, and shown it to his senior. "Halloa! Nastasia Philipovna! Did she send it you herself? Herself?" he inquired, with much curiosity and great animation. "She gave it me just now, when I called in to congratulate her. I asked her for it long ago. I don't know whether she meant it for a hint that I had come empty-handed, without a present for her birthday, or what," added Gania, with an unpleasant smile. "Oh, nonsense, nonsense," said the general, with decision. " What extraordinary ideas you have, Gania! As if she would hint; that's not her way at all. Besides, what could you give her, without having thousands at your disposal? You might have given her your portrait, however. Has she ever asked you for it?" "No, not yet. Very likely she never will. I suppose you haven't forgotten about tonight, have you, Ivan Fedorovitch? You were one of those specially invited, you know." "Oh no, I remember all right, and I shall go, of course. I should think so! She's twenty-five years old today! And, you know, Gania, you must be ready for great things; she has promised both myself and Afanasy Ivanovitch that she will give a decided answer tonight, yes or no. So be prepared!" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 18 Gania suddenly became so ill at ease that his face grew paler than ever. "Are you sure she said that?" he asked, and his voice seemed to quiver as he spoke. "Yes, she promised. We both worried her so that she gave in; but she wished us to tell you nothing about it until the day. " The general watched Gania's confusion intently, and clearly did not like it. "Remember, Ivan Fedorovitch," said Gania, in great agitation, "that I was to be free too, until her decision; and that even then I was to have my 'yes or no' free." "Why, don't you, aren't you--" began the general, in alarm. "Oh, don't misunderstand--" "But, my dear fellow, what are you doing, what do you mean?" "Oh, I'm not rejecting her. I may have expressed myself badly, but I didn't mean that." "Reject her! I should think not!" said the general with annoyance, and apparently not in the least anxious to conceal it. "Why, my dear fellow, it's not a question of your rejecting her, it is whether you are prepared to receive her consent joyfully, and with proper satisfaction. How are things going on at home?" "At home? Oh, I can do as I like there, of course; only my father will make a fool of himself, as usual. He is rapidly becoming a general nuisance. I don't ever talk to him now, but I hold him in cheek, safe enough. I swear if it had not been for my mother, I should have shown him the way out, long ago. My mother is always crying, of course, and my sister sulks. I had to tell them at last that I intended to be master of my own destiny, and that I expect to be obeyed at home. At least, I gave my sister to understand as much, and my mother was present." "Well, I must say, I cannot understand it!" said the general, shrugging his shoulders and dropping his hands. "You remember your mother, Nina Alexandrovna, that day she came and sat here and groaned-and when I asked her what was the matter, she says, 'Oh, it's such a DISHONOUR to us!' dishonour! Stuff and nonsense! I should like to know who can reproach Nastasia Philipovna, or who can say a word of any kind against her. Did she mean because Nastasia had been living with Totski? What nonsense it is! You would not let her come near your daughters, says Nina Alexandrovna. What next, I wonder? I don't see how she can fail to--to understand--" "Her own position?" prompted Gania. "She does understand. Don't be annoyed with her. I have warned her not to meddle in other people's affairs. However, although there's comparative peace at home at present, the storm will break if anything is finally settled tonight." The prince heard the whole of the foregoing conversation, as he sat at the table, writing. He finished at last, and brought the result of his labour to the general's desk. "So this is Nastasia Philipovna," he said, looking attentively and curiously at the portrait. "How wonderfully beautiful!" he immediately added, with warmth. The picture was certainly that of an unusually lovely woman. She was photographed in a black silk dress of simple design, her hair was evidently dark and plainly arranged, her eyes were deep and thoughtful, the expression of her face passionate, but proud. She was rather thin, perhaps, and a little pale. Both Gania and the general gazed at the prince in amazement. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 19 "How do you know it's Nastasia Philipovna?" asked the general; "you surely don't know her already, do you? " "Yes, I do! I have only been one day in Russia, but I have heard of the great beauty!" And the prince proceeded to narrate his meeting with Rogojin in the train and the whole of the latter's story. "There's news!" said the general in some excitement, after listening to the story with engrossed attention. "Oh, of course it's nothing but humbug!" cried Gania, a little disturbed, however. "It's all humbug; the young merchant was pleased to indulge in a little innocent recreation! I have heard something of Rogojin!" "Yes, so have I!" replied the general. "Nastasia Philipovna told us all about the earrings that very day. But now it is quite a different matter. You see the fellow really has a million of roubles, and he is passionately in love. The whole story smells of passion, and we all know what this class of gentry is capable of when infatuated. I am much afraid of some disagreeable scandal, I am indeed!" "You are afraid of the million, I suppose," said Gania, grinning and showing his teeth. "And you are NOT, I presume, eh?" "How did he strike you, prince?" asked Gania, suddenly. "Did he seem to be a serious sort of a man, or just a common rowdy fellow? What was your own opinion about the matter?" While Gania put this question, a new idea suddenly flashed into his brain, and blazed out, impatiently, in his eyes. The general, who was really agitated and disturbed, looked at the prince too, but did not seem to expect much from his reply. "I really don't quite know how to tell you," replied the prince, "but it certainly did seem to me that the man was full of passion, and not, perhaps, quite healthy passion. He seemed to be still far from well. Very likely he will be in bed again in a day or two, especially if he lives fast." "No! do you think so?" said the general, catching at the idea. "Yes, I do think so!" "Yes, but the sort of scandal I referred to may happen at any moment. It may be this very evening," remarked Gania to the general, with a smile. "Of course; quite so. In that case it all depends upon what is going on in her brain at this moment." "You know the kind of person she is at times." "How? What kind of person is she?" cried the general, arrived at the limits of his patience. Look here, Gania, don't you go annoying her tonight What you are to do is to be as agreeable towards her as ever you can. Well, what are you smiling at? You must understand, Gania, that I have no interest whatever in speaking like this. Whichever way the question is settled, it will be to my advantage. Nothing will move Totski from his resolution, so I run no risk. If there is anything I desire, you must know that it is your benefit only. Can't you trust me? You are a sensible fellow, and I have been counting on you; for, in this matter, that, that--" "Yes, that's the chief thing," said Gania, helping the general out of his difficulties again, and curling his lips in an envenomed smile, which he did not attempt to conceal. He gazed with his fevered eyes straight into those of the general, as though he were anxious that the latter might read his thoughts. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 20 The general grew purple with anger. "Yes, of course it is the chief thing!" he cried, looking sharply at Gania. "What a very curious man you are, Gania! You actually seem to be GLAD to hear of this millionaire fellow's arrival- just as though you wished for an excuse to get out of the whole thing. This is an affair in which you ought to act honestly with both sides, and give due warning, to avoid compromising others. But, even now, there is still time. Do you understand me? I wish to know whether you desire this arrangement or whether you do not? If not, say so,--and-and welcome! No one is trying to force you into the snare, Gavrila Ardalionovitch, if you see a snare in the matter, at least." "I do desire it," murmured Gania, softly but firmly, lowering his eyes; and he relapsed into gloomy silence. The general was satisfied. He had excited himself, and was evidently now regretting that he had gone so far. He turned to the prince, and suddenly the disagreeable thought of the latter's presence struck him, and the certainty that he must have heard every word of the conversation. But he felt at ease in another moment; it only needed one glance at the prince to see that in that quarter there was nothing to fear. "Oh!" cried the general, catching sight of the prince's specimen of caligraphy, which the latter had now handed him for inspection. "Why, this is simply beautiful; look at that, Gania, there's real talent there!" On a sheet of thick writing-paper the prince had written in medieval characters the legend: "The gentle Abbot Pafnute signed this." "There," explained the prince, with great delight and animation, "there, that's the abbot's real signature--from a manuscript of the fourteenth century. All these old abbots and bishops used to write most beautifully, with such taste and so much care and diligence. Have you no copy of Pogodin, general? If you had one I could show you another type. Stop a bit--here you have the large round writing common in France during the eighteenth century. Some of the letters are shaped quite differently from those now in use. It was the writing current then, and employed by public writers generally. I copied this from one of them, and you can see how good it is. Look at the well-rounded a and d. I have tried to translate the French character into the Russian letters- -a difficult thing to do, but I think I have succeeded fairly. Here is a fine sentence, written in a good, original hand--'Zeal triumphs over all.' That is the script of the Russian War Office. That is how official documents addressed to important personages should be written. The letters are round, the type black, and the style somewhat remarkable. A stylist would not allow these ornaments, or attempts at flourishes--just look at these unfinished tails!--but it has distinction and really depicts the soul of the writer. He would like to give play to his imagination, and follow the inspiration of his genius, but a soldier is only at ease in the guard-room, and the pen stops half-way, a slave to discipline. How delightful! The first time I met an example of this handwriting, I was positively astonished, and where do you think I chanced to find it? In Switzerland, of all places! Now that is an ordinary English hand. It can hardly be improved, it is so refined and exquisite--almost perfection. This is an example of another kind, a mixture of styles. The copy was given me by a French commercial traveller. It is founded on the English, but the downstrokes are a little blacker, and more marked. Notice that the oval has some slight modification--it is more rounded. This writing allows for flourishes; now a flourish is a dangerous thing! Its use requires such taste, but, if successful, what a distinction it gives to the whole! It results in an incomparable type--one to fall in love with!" "Dear me! How you have gone into all the refinements and details of the question! Why, my dear fellow, you are not a caligraphist, you are an artist! Eh, Gania ?" "Wonderful!" said Gania. "And he knows it too," he added, with a sarcastic smile. "You may smile,--but there's a career in this," said the general. "You don't know what a great personage I by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 21 shall show this to, prince. Why, you can command a situation at thirty-five roubles per month to start with. However, it's half-past twelve," he concluded, looking at his watch; "so to business, prince, for I must be setting to work and shall not see you again today. Sit down a minute. I have told you that I cannot receive you myself very often, but I should like to be of some assistance to you, some small assistance, of a kind that would give you satisfaction. I shall find you a place in one of the State departments, an easy place--but you will require to be accurate. Now, as to your plans--in the house, or rather in the family of Gania here--my young friend, whom I hope you will know better--his mother and sister have prepared two or three rooms for lodgers, and let them to highly recommended young fellows, with board and attendance. I am sure Nina Alexandrovna will take you in on my recommendation. There you will be comfortable and well taken care of; for I do not think, prince, that you are the sort of man to be left to the mercy of Fate in a town like Petersburg. Nina Alexandrovna, Gania's mother, and Varvara Alexandrovna, are ladies for whom I have the highest possible esteem and respect. Nina Alexandrovna is the wife of General Ardalion Alexandrovitch, my old brother in arms, with whom, I regret to say, on account of certain circumstances, I am no longer acquainted. I give you all this information, prince, in order to make it clear to you that I am personally recommending you to this family, and that in so doing, I am more or less taking upon myself to answer for you. The terms are most reasonable, and I trust that your salary will very shortly prove amply sufficient for your expenditure. Of course pocket-money is a necessity, if only a little; do not be angry, prince, if I strongly recommend you to avoid carrying money in your pocket. But as your purse is quite empty at the present moment, you must allow me to press these twenty-five roubles upon your acceptance, as something to begin with. Of course we will settle this little matter another time, and if you are the upright, honest man you look, I anticipate very little trouble between us on that score. Taking so much interest in you as you may perceive I do, I am not without my object, and you shall know it in good time. You see, I am perfectly candid with you. I hope, Gania, you have nothing to say against the prince's taking up his abode in your house?" "Oh, on the contrary! my mother will be very glad," said Gania, courteously and kindly. "I think only one of your rooms is engaged as yet, is it not? That fellow Ferd-Ferd--" "Ferdishenko." "Yes--I don't like that Ferdishenko. I can't understand why Nastasia Philipovna encourages him so. Is he really her cousin, as he says?" "Oh dear no, it's all a joke. No more cousin than I am." "Well, what do you think of the arrangement, prince?" "Thank you, general; you have behaved very kindly to me; all the more so since I did not ask you to help me. I don't say that out of pride. I certainly did not know where to lay my head tonight. Rogojin asked me to come to his house, of course, but--" "Rogojin? No, no, my good fellow. I should strongly recommend you, paternally,--or, if you prefer it, as a friend,--to forget all about Rogojin, and, in fact, to stick to the family into which you are about to enter." "Thank you," began the prince; "and since you are so very kind there is just one matter which I--" "You must really excuse me," interrupted the general, "but I positively haven't another moment now. I shall just tell Elizabetha Prokofievna about you, and if she wishes to receive you at once--as I shall advise her--I strongly recommend you to ingratiate yourself with her at the first opportunity, for my wife may be of the greatest service to you in many ways. If she cannot receive you now, you must be content to wait till another time. Meanwhile you, Gania, just look over these accounts, will you? We mustn't forget to finish off that matter--" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 22 The general left the room, and the prince never succeeded in broaching the business which he had on hand, though he had endeavoured to do so four times. Gania lit a cigarette and offered one to the prince. The latter accepted the offer, but did not talk, being unwilling to disturb Gania's work. He commenced to examine the study and its contents. But Gania hardly so much as glanced at the papers lying before him; he was absent and thoughtful, and his smile and general appearance struck the prince still more disagreeably now that the two were left alone together. Suddenly Gania approached our hero who was at the moment standing over Nastasia Philipovna's portrait, gazing at it. "Do you admire that sort of woman, prince?" he asked, looking intently at him. He seemed to have some special object in the question. "It's a wonderful face," said the prince, "and I feel sure that her destiny is not by any means an ordinary, uneventful one. Her face is smiling enough, but she must have suffered terribly-- hasn't she? Her eyes show it--those two bones there, the little points under her eyes, just where the cheek begins. It's a proud face too, terribly proud! And I--I can't say whether she is good and kind, or not. Oh, if she be but good! That would make all well!" "And would you marry a woman like that, now?" continued Gania, never taking his excited eyes off the prince's face. "I cannot marry at all," said the latter. "I am an invalid." "Would Rogojin marry her, do you think?" "Why not? Certainly he would, I should think. He would marry her tomorrow!--marry her tomorrow and murder her in a week!" Hardly had the prince uttered the last word when Gania gave such a fearful shudder that the prince almost cried out. "What's the matter?" said he, seizing Gania's hand. "Your highness! His excellency begs your presence in her excellency's apartments!" announced the footman, appearing at the door. The prince immediately followed the man out of the room. IV. ALL three of the Miss Epanchins were fine, healthy girls, well- grown, with good shoulders and busts, and strong--almost masculine--hands; and, of course, with all the above attributes, they enjoyed capital appetites, of which they were not in the least ashamed. Elizabetha Prokofievna sometimes informed the girls that they were a little too candid in this matter, but in spite of their outward deference to their mother these three young women, in solemn conclave, had long agreed to modify the unquestioning obedience which they had been in the habit of according to her; and Mrs. General Epanchin had judged it better to say nothing about it, though, of course, she was well aware of the fact. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 23 It is true that her nature sometimes rebelled against these dictates of reason, and that she grew yearly more capricious and impatient; but having a respectful and well-disciplined husband under her thumb at all times, she found it possible, as a rule, to empty any little accumulations of spleen upon his head, and therefore the harmony of the family was kept duly balanced, and things went as smoothly as family matters can. Mrs. Epanchin had a fair appetite herself, and generally took her share of the capital mid-day lunch which was always served for the girls, and which was nearly as good as a dinner. The young ladies used to have a cup of coffee each before this meal, at ten o'clock, while still in bed. This was a favourite and unalterable arrangement with them. At half-past twelve, the table was laid in the small dining-room, and occasionally the general himself appeared at the family gathering, if he had time. Besides tea and coffee, cheese, honey, butter, pan-cakes of various kinds (the lady of the house loved these best), cutlets, and so on, there was generally strong beef soup, and other substantial delicacies. On the particular morning on which our story has opened, the family had assembled in the dining-room, and were waiting the general's appearance, the latter having promised to come this day. If he had been one moment late, he would have been sent for at once; but he turned up punctually. As he came forward to wish his wife good-morning and kiss her hands, as his custom was, he observed something in her look which boded ill. He thought he knew the reason, and had expected it, but still, he was not altogether comfortable. His daughters advanced to kiss him, too, and though they did not look exactly angry, there was something strange in their expression as well. The general was, owing to certain circumstances, a little inclined to be too suspicious at home, and needlessly nervous; but, as an experienced father and husband, he judged it better to take measures at once to protect himself from any dangers there might be in the air. However, I hope I shall not interfere with the proper sequence of my narrative too much, if I diverge for a moment at this point, in order to explain the mutual relations between General Epanchin's family and others acting a part in this history, at the time when we take up the thread of their destiny. I have already stated that the general, though he was a man of lowly origin, and of poor education, was, for all that, an experienced and talented husband and father. Among other things, he considered it undesirable to hurry his daughters to the matrimonial altar and to worry them too much with assurances of his paternal wishes for their happiness, as is the custom among parents of many grown-up daughters. He even succeeded in ranging his wife on his side on this question, though he found the feat very difficult to accomplish, because unnatural; but the general's arguments were conclusive, and founded upon obvious facts. The general considered that the girls' taste and good sense should be allowed to develop and mature deliberately, and that the parents' duty should merely be to keep watch, in order that no strange or undesirable choice be made; but that the selection once effected, both father and mother were bound from that moment to enter heart and soul into the cause, and to see that the matter progressed without hindrance until the altar should be happily reached. Besides this, it was clear that the Epanchins' position gained each year, with geometrical accuracy, both as to financial solidity and social weight; and, therefore, the longer the girls waited, the better was their chance of making a brilliant match. But again, amidst the incontrovertible facts just recorded, one more, equally significant, rose up to confront the family; and this was, that the eldest daughter, Alexandra, had imperceptibly arrived at her twenty-fifth birthday. Almost at the same moment, Afanasy Ivanovitch Totski, a man of immense wealth, high connections, and good standing, announced his intention of marrying. Afanasy Ivanovitch was a gentleman of fifty-five years of age, artistically gifted, and of most refined tastes. He wished to marry well, and, moreover, he was a keen admirer and judge of beauty. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 24 Now, since Totski had, of late, been upon terms of great cordiality with Epanchin, which excellent relations were intensified by the fact that they were, so to speak, partners in several financial enterprises, it so happened that the former now put in a friendly request to the general for counsel with regard to the important step he meditated. Might he suggest, for instance, such a thing as a marriage between himself and one of the general's daughters? Evidently the quiet, pleasant current of the family life of the Epanchins was about to undergo a change. The undoubted beauty of the family, par excellence, was the youngest, Aglaya, as aforesaid. But Totski himself, though an egotist of the extremest type, realized that he had no chance there; Aglaya was clearly not for such as he. Perhaps the sisterly love and friendship of the three girls had more or less exaggerated Aglaya's chances of happiness. In their opinion, the latter's destiny was not merely to be very happy; she was to live in a heaven on earth. Aglaya's husband was to be a compendium of all the virtues, and of all success, not to speak of fabulous wealth. The two elder sisters had agreed that all was to be sacrificed by them, if need be, for Aglaya's sake; her dowry was to be colossal and unprecedented. The general and his wife were aware of this agreement, and, therefore, when Totski suggested himself for one of the sisters, the parents made no doubt that one of the two elder girls would probably accept the offer, since Totski would certainly make no difficulty as to dowry. The general valued the proposal very highly. He knew life, and realized what such an offer was worth. The answer of the sisters to the communication was, if not conclusive, at least consoling and hopeful. It made known that the eldest, Alexandra, would very likely be disposed to listen to a proposal. Alexandra was a good-natured girl, though she had a will of her own. She was intelligent and kind-hearted, and, if she were to marry Totski, she would make him a good wife. She did not care for a brilliant marriage; she was eminently a woman calculated to soothe and sweeten the life of any man; decidedly pretty, if not absolutely handsome. What better could Totski wish? So the matter crept slowly forward. The general and Totski had agreed to avoid any hasty and irrevocable step. Alexandra's parents had not even begun to talk to their daughters freely upon the subject, when suddenly, as it were, a dissonant chord was struck amid the harmony of the proceedings. Mrs. Epanchin began to show signs of discontent, and that was a serious matter. A certain circumstance had crept in, a disagreeable and troublesome factor, which threatened to overturn the whole business. This circumstance had come into existence eighteen years before. Close to an estate of Totski's, in one of the central provinces of Russia, there lived, at that time, a poor gentleman whose estate was of the wretchedest description. This gentleman was noted in the district for his persistent ill-fortune; his name was Barashkoff, and, as regards family and descent, he was vastly superior to Totski, but his estate was mortgaged to the last acre. One day, when he had ridden over to the town to see a creditor, the chief peasant of his village followed him shortly after, with the news that his house had been burnt down, and that his wife had perished with it, but his children were safe. Even Barashkoff, inured to the storms of evil fortune as he was, could not stand this last stroke. He went mad and died shortly after in the town hospital. His estate was sold for the creditors; and the little girls--two of them, of seven and eight years of age respectively,--were adopted by Totski, who undertook their maintenance and education in the kindness of his heart. They were brought up together with the children of his German bailiff. Very soon, however, there was only one of them left- Nastasia Philipovna--for the other little one died of whooping- cough. Totski, who was living abroad at this time, very soon forgot all about the child; but five years after, returning to Russia, it struck him that he would like to look over his estate and see how matters by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 25 were going there, and, arrived at his bailiff's house, he was not long in discovering that among the children of the latter there now dwelt a most lovely little girl of twelve, sweet and intelligent, and bright, and promising to develop beauty of most unusual quality-as to which last Totski was an undoubted authority. He only stayed at his country scat a few days on this occasion, but he had time to make his arrangements. Great changes took place in the child's education; a good governess was engaged, a Swiss lady of experience and culture. For four years this lady resided in the house with little Nastia, and then the education was considered complete. The governess took her departure, and another lady came down to fetch Nastia, by Totski's instructions. The child was now transported to another of Totski's estates in a distant part of the country. Here she found a delightful little house, just built, and prepared for her reception with great care and taste; and here she took up her abode together with the lady who had accompanied her from her old home. In the house there were two experienced maids, musical instruments of all sorts, a charming "young lady's library," pictures, paint-boxes, a lap- dog, and everything to make life agreeable. Within a fortnight Totski himself arrived, and from that time he appeared to have taken a great fancy to this part of the world and came down each summer, staying two and three months at a time. So passed four years peacefully and happily, in charming surroundings. At the end of that time, and about four months after Totski's last visit (he had stayed but a fortnight on this occasion), a report reached Nastasia Philipovna that he was about to be married in St. Petersburg, to a rich, eminent, and lovely woman. The report was only partially true, the marriage project being only in an embryo condition; but a great change now came over Nastasia Philipovna. She suddenly displayed unusual decision of character; and without wasting time in thought, she left her country home and came up to St. Petersburg, straight to Totski's house, all alone. The latter, amazed at her conduct, began to express his displeasure; but he very soon became aware that he must change his voice, style, and everything else, with this young lady; the good old times were gone. An entirely new and different woman sat before him, between whom and the girl he had left in the country last July there seemed nothing in common. In the first place, this new woman understood a good deal more than was usual for young people of her age; so much indeed, that Totski could not help wondering where she had picked up her knowledge. Surely not from her "young lady's library"? It even embraced legal matters, and the "world" in general, to a considerable extent. Her character was absolutely changed. No more of the girlish alternations of timidity and petulance, the adorable naivete, the reveries, the tears, the playfulness... It was an entirely new and hitherto unknown being who now sat and laughed at him, and informed him to his face that she had never had the faintest feeling for him of any kind, except loathing and contempt-- contempt which had followed closely upon her sensations of surprise and bewilderment after her first acquaintance with him. This new woman gave him further to understand that though it was absolutely the same to her whom he married, yet she had decided to prevent this marriage--for no particular reason, but that she chose to do so, and because she wished to amuse herself at his expense for that it was "quite her turn to laugh a little now!" Such were her words--very likely she did not give her real reason for this eccentric conduct; but, at all events, that was all the explanation she deigned to offer. Meanwhile, Totski thought the matter over as well as his scattered ideas would permit. His meditations lasted a fortnight, however, and at the end of that time his resolution was taken. The fact was, Totski was at that time a man of fifty years of age; his position was solid and respectable; his place in society had long been firmly fixed upon safe foundations; he loved himself, his personal comforts, and his position better than all the world, as every respectable gentleman should! by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 26 At the same time his grasp of things in general soon showed Totski that he now had to deal with a being who was outside the pale of the ordinary rules of traditional behaviour, and who would not only threaten mischief but would undoubtedly carry it out, and stop for no one. There was evidently, he concluded, something at work here; some storm of the mind, some paroxysm of romantic anger, goodness knows against whom or what, some insatiable contempt--in a word, something altogether absurd and impossible, but at the same time most dangerous to be met with by any respectable person with a position in society to keep up. For a man of Totski's wealth and standing, it would, of course, have been the simplest possible matter to take steps which would rid him at once from all annoyance; while it was obviously impossible for Nastasia Philipovna to harm him in any way, either legally or by stirring up a scandal, for, in case of the latter danger, he could so easily remove her to a sphere of safety. However, these arguments would only hold good in case of Nastasia acting as others might in such an emergency. She was much more likely to overstep the bounds of reasonable conduct by some extraordinary eccentricity. Here the sound judgment of Totski stood him in good stead. He realized that Nastasia Philipovna must be well aware that she could do nothing by legal means to injure him, and that her flashing eyes betrayed some entirely different intention. Nastasia Philipovna was quite capable of ruining herself, and even of perpetrating something which would send her to Siberia, for the mere pleasure of injuring a man for whom she had developed so inhuman a sense of loathing and contempt. He had sufficient insight to understand that she valued nothing in the world--herself least of all--and he made no attempt to conceal the fact that he was a coward in some respects. For instance, if he had been told that he would be stabbed at the altar, or publicly insulted, he would undoubtedly have been frightened; but not so much at the idea of being murdered, or wounded, or insulted, as at the thought that if such things were to happen he would be made to look ridiculous in the eyes of society. He knew well that Nastasia thoroughly understood him and where to wound him and how, and therefore, as the marriage was still only in embryo, Totski decided to conciliate her by giving it up. His decision was strengthened by the fact that Nastasia Philipovna had curiously altered of late. It would be difficult to conceive how different she was physically, at the present time, to the girl of a few years ago. She was pretty then . . . but now! . . . Totski laughed angrily when he thought how short-sighted he had been. In days gone by he remembered how he had looked at her beautiful eyes, how even then he had marvelled at their dark mysterious depths, and at their wondering gaze which seemed to seek an answer to some unknown riddle. Her complexion also had altered. She was now exceedingly pale, but, curiously, this change only made her more beautiful. Like most men of the world, Totski had rather despised such a cheaply-bought conquest, but of late years he had begun to think differently about it. It had struck him as long ago as last spring that he ought to be finding a good match for Nastasia; for instance, some respectable and reasonable young fellow serving in a government office in another part of the country. How maliciously Nastasia laughed at the idea of such a thing, now! However, it appeared to Totski that he might make use of her in another way; and he determined to establish her in St. Petersburg, surrounding her with all the comforts and luxuries that his wealth could command. In this way he might gain glory in certain circles. Five years of this Petersburg life went by, and, of course, during that time a great deal happened. Totski's position was very uncomfortable; having "funked" once, he could not totally regain his ease. He was afraid, he did not know why, but he was simply afraid of Nastasia Philipovna. For the first two years or so he had suspected that she wished to marry him herself, and that only her vanity prevented her telling him so. He thought that she wanted him to approach her with a humble proposal from his own side, But to his great, and not entirely pleasurable amazement, he discovered that this was by no means the case, and that were he to by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 27 offer himself he would be refused. He could not understand such a state of things, and was obliged to conclude that it was pride, the pride of an injured and imaginative woman, which had gone to such lengths that it preferred to sit and nurse its contempt and hatred in solitude rather than mount to heights of hitherto unattainable splendour. To make matters worse, she was quite impervious to mercenary considerations, and could not be bribed in any way. Finally, Totski took cunning means to try to break his chains and be free. He tried to tempt her in various ways to lose her heart; he invited princes, hussars, secretaries of embassies, poets, novelists, even Socialists, to see her; but not one of them all made the faintest impression upon Nastasia. It was as though she had a pebble in place of a heart, as though her feelings and affections were dried up and withered for ever. She lived almost entirely alone; she read, she studied, she loved music. Her principal acquaintances were poor women of various grades, a couple of actresses, and the family of a poor schoolteacher. Among these people she was much beloved. She received four or five friends sometimes, of an evening. Totski often came. Lately, too, General Epanchin had been enabled with great difficulty to introduce himself into her circle. Gania made her acquaintance also, and others were Ferdishenko, an ill- bred, and would-be witty, young clerk, and Ptitsin, a money- lender of modest and polished manners, who had risen from poverty. In fact, Nastasia Philipovna's beauty became a thing known to all the town; but not a single man could boast of anything more than his own admiration for her; and this reputation of hers, and her wit and culture and grace, all confirmed Totski in the plan he had now prepared. And it was at this moment that General Epanchin began to play so large and important a part in the story. When Totski had approached the general with his request for friendly counsel as to a marriage with one of his daughters, he had made a full and candid confession. He had said that he intended to stop at no means to obtain his freedom; even if Nastasia were to promise to leave him entirely alone in future, he would not (he said) believe and trust her; words were not enough for him; he must have solid guarantees of some sort. So he and the general determined to try what an attempt to appeal to her heart would effect. Having arrived at Nastasia's house one day, with Epanchin, Totski immediately began to speak of the intolerable torment of his position. He admitted that he was to blame for all, but candidly confessed that he could not bring himself to feel any remorse for his original guilt towards herself, because he was a man of sensual passions which were inborn and ineradicable, and that he had no power over himself in this respect; but that he wished, seriously, to marry at last, and that the whole fate of the most desirable social union which he contemplated, was in her hands; in a word, he confided his all to her generosity of heart. General Epanchin took up his part and spoke in the character of father of a family; he spoke sensibly, and without wasting words over any attempt at sentimentality, he merely recorded his full admission of her right to be the arbiter of Totski's destiny at this moment. He then pointed out that the fate of his daughter, and very likely of both his other daughters, now hung upon her reply. To Nastasia's question as to what they wished her to do, Totski confessed that he had been so frightened by her, five years ago, that he could never now be entirely comfortable until she herself married. He immediately added that such a suggestion from him would, of course, be absurd, unless accompanied by remarks of a more pointed nature. He very well knew, he said, that a certain young gentleman of good family, namely, Gavrila Ardalionovitch Ivolgin, with whom she was acquainted, and whom she received at her house, had long loved her passionately, and would give his life for some response from her. The young fellow had confessed this love of his to him (Totski) and had also admitted it in the hearing of his benefactor, General Epanchin. Lastly, he could not help being of opinion that Nastasia must be aware of Gania's love for her, and if he (Totski) mistook not, she had looked with some favour upon it, being often lonely, and rather tired of her present life. Having remarked how difficult it was for him, of all people, to speak to her of these matters, Totski concluded by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 28 by saying that he trusted Nastasia Philipovna would not look with contempt upon him if he now expressed his sincere desire to guarantee her future by a gift of seventy-five thousand roubles. He added that the sum would have been left her all the same in his will, and that therefore she must not consider the gift as in any way an indemnification to her for anything, but that there was no reason, after all, why a man should not be allowed to entertain a natural desire to lighten his conscience, etc., etc.; in fact, all that would naturally be said under the circumstances. Totski was very eloquent all through, and, in conclusion, just touched on the fact that not a soul in the world, not even General Epanchin, had ever heard a word about the above seventy-five thousand roubles, and that this was the first time he had ever given expression to his intentions in respect to them. Nastasia Philipovna's reply to this long rigmarole astonished both the friends considerably. Not only was there no trace of her former irony, of her old hatred and enmity, and of that dreadful laughter, the very recollection of which sent a cold chill down Totski's back to this very day; but she seemed charmed and really glad to have the opportunity of talking seriously with him for once in a way. She confessed that she had long wished to have a frank and free conversation and to ask for friendly advice, but that pride had hitherto prevented her; now, however, that the ice was broken, nothing could be more welcome to her than this opportunity. First, with a sad smile, and then with a twinkle of merriment in her eyes, she admitted that such a storm as that of five years ago was now quite out of the question. She said that she had long since changed her views of things, and recognized that facts must be taken into consideration in spite of the feelings of the heart. What was done was done and ended, and she could not understand why Totski should still feel alarmed. She next turned to General Epanchin and observed, most courteously, that she had long since known of his daughters, and that she had heard none but good report; that she had learned to think of them with deep and sincere respect. The idea alone that she could in any way serve them, would be to her both a pride and a source of real happiness. It was true that she was lonely in her present life; Totski had judged her thoughts aright. She longed to rise, if not to love, at least to family life and new hopes and objects, but as to Gavrila Ardalionovitch, she could not as yet say much. She thought it must be the case that he loved her; she felt that she too might learn to love him, if she could be sure of the firmness of his attachment to herself; but he was very young, and it was a difficult question to decide. What she specially liked about him was that he worked, and supported his family by his toil. She had heard that he was proud and ambitious; she had heard much that was interesting of his mother and sister, she had heard of them from Mr. Ptitsin, and would much like to make their acquaintance, but--another question!--would they like to receive her into their house? At all events, though she did not reject the idea of this marriage, she desired not to be hurried. As for the seventy-five thousand roubles, Mr. Totski need not have found any difficulty or awkwardness about the matter; she quite understood the value of money, and would, of course, accept the gift. She thanked him for his delicacy, however, but saw no reason why Gavrila Ardalionovitch should not know about it. She would not marry the latter, she said, until she felt persuaded that neither on his part nor on the part of his family did there exist any sort of concealed suspicions as to herself. She did not intend to ask forgiveness for anything in the past, which fact she desired to be known. She did not consider herself to blame for anything that had happened in former years, and she thought that Gavrila Ardalionovitch should be informed as to the relations which had existed between herself and Totski during the last five years. If she accepted this money it was not to be considered as indemnification for her misfortune as a young girl, which had not been in any degree her own fault, but merely as compensation for her ruined life. She became so excited and agitated during all these explanations and confessions that General Epanchin was by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 29 highly gratified, and considered the matter satisfactorily arranged once for all. But the once bitten Totski was twice shy, and looked for hidden snakes among the flowers. However, the special point to which the two friends particularly trusted to bring about their object (namely, Gania's attractiveness for Nastasia Philipovna), stood out more and more prominently; the pourparlers had commenced, and gradually even Totski began to believe in the possibility of success. Before long Nastasia and Gania had talked the matter over. Very little was said--her modesty seemed to suffer under the infliction of discussing such a question. But she recognized his love, on the understanding that she bound herself to nothing whatever, and that she reserved the right to say "no" up to the very hour of the marriage ceremony. Gania was to have the same right of refusal at the last moment. It soon became clear to Gania, after scenes of wrath and quarrellings at the domestic hearth, that his family were seriously opposed to the match, and that Nastasia was aware of this fact was equally evident. She said nothing about it, though he daily expected her to do so. There were several rumours afloat, before long, which upset Totski's equanimity a good deal, but we will not now stop to describe them; merely mentioning an instance or two. One was that Nastasia had entered into close and secret relations with the Epanchin girls--a most unlikely rumour; another was that Nastasia had long satisfied herself of the fact that Gania was merely marrying her for money, and that his nature was gloomy and greedy, impatient and selfish, to an extraordinary degree; and that although he had been keen enough in his desire to achieve a conquest before, yet since the two friends had agreed to exploit his passion for their own purposes, it was clear enough that he had begun to consider the whole thing a nuisance and a nightmare. In his heart passion and hate seemed to hold divided sway, and although he had at last given his consent to marry the woman (as he said), under the stress of circumstances, yet he promised himself that he would "take it out of her," after marriage. Nastasia seemed to Totski to have divined all this, and to be preparing something on her own account, which frightened him to such an extent that he did not dare communicate his views even to the general. But at times he would pluck up his courage and be full of hope and good spirits again, acting, in fact, as weak men do act in such circumstances. However, both the friends felt that the thing looked rosy indeed when one day Nastasia informed them that she would give her final answer on the evening of her birthday, which anniversary was due in a very short time. A strange rumour began to circulate, meanwhile; no less than that the respectable and highly respected General Epanchin was himself so fascinated by Nastasia Philipovna that his feeling for her amounted almost to passion. What he thought to gain by Gania's marriage to the girl it was difficult to imagine. Possibly he counted on Gania's complaisance; for Totski had long suspected that there existed some secret understanding between the general and his secretary. At all events the fact was known that he had prepared a magnificent present of pearls for Nastasia's birthday, and that he was looking forward to the occasion when he should present his gift with the greatest excitement and impatience. The day before her birthday he was in a fever of agitation. Mrs. Epanchin, long accustomed to her husband's infidelities, had heard of the pearls, and the rumour excited her liveliest curiosity and interest. The general remarked her suspicions, and felt that a grand explanation must shortly take place--which fact alarmed him much. This is the reason why he was so unwilling to take lunch (on the morning upon which we took up this narrative) with the rest of his family. Before the prince's arrival he had made up his mind to plead business, and "cut" the meal; which simply meant running away. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 30 He was particularly anxious that this one day should be passed-- especially the evening--without unpleasantness between himself and his family; and just at the right moment the prince turned up--"as though Heaven had sent him on purpose," said the general to himself, as he left the study to seek out the wife of his bosom. V. Mrs. General Epanchin was a proud woman by nature. What must her feelings have been when she heard that Prince Muishkin, the last of his and her line, had arrived in beggar's guise, a wretched idiot, a recipient of charity--all of which details the general gave out for greater effect! He was anxious to steal her interest at the first swoop, so as to distract her thoughts from other matters nearer home. Mrs. Epanchin was in the habit of holding herself very straight, and staring before her, without speaking, in moments of excitement. She was a fine woman of the same age as her husband, with a slightly hooked nose, a high, narrow forehead, thick hair turning a little grey, and a sallow complexion. Her eyes were grey and wore a very curious expression at times. She believed them to be most effective--a belief that nothing could alter. "What, receive him! Now, at once?" asked Mrs. Epanchin, gazing vaguely at her husband as he stood fidgeting before her. "Oh, dear me, I assure you there is no need to stand on ceremony with him," the general explained hastily. "He is quite a child, not to say a pathetic-looking creature. He has fits of some sort, and has just arrived from Switzerland, straight from the station, dressed like a German and without a farthing in his pocket. I gave him twenty-five roubles to go on with, and am going to find him some easy place in one of the government offices. I should like you to ply him well with the victuals, my dears, for I should think he must be very hungry." "You astonish me," said the lady, gazing as before. "Fits, and hungry too! What sort of fits?" "Oh, they don't come on frequently, besides, he's a regular child, though he seems to be fairly educated. I should like you, if possible, my dears," the general added, making slowly for the door, "to put him through his paces a bit, and see what he is good for. I think you should be kind to him; it is a good deed, you know--however, just as you like, of course--but he is a sort of relation, remember, and I thought it might interest you to see the young fellow, seeing that this is so." "Oh, of course, mamma, if we needn't stand on ceremony with him, we must give the poor fellow something to eat after his journey; especially as he has not the least idea where to go to," said Alexandra, the eldest of the girls. "Besides, he's quite a child; we can entertain him with a little hide-and-seek, in case of need," said Adelaida. "Hide-and-seek? What do you mean?" inquired Mrs. Epanchin. "Oh, do stop pretending, mamma," cried Aglaya, in vexation. "Send him up, father; mother allows." The general rang the bell and gave orders that the prince should be shown in. "Only on condition that he has a napkin under his chin at lunch, then," said Mrs. Epanchin, "and let Fedor, or Mavra, stand behind him while he eats. Is he quiet when he has these fits? He doesn't show violence, does he?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 31 "On the contrary, he seems to be very well brought up. His manners are excellent--but here he is himself. Here you are, prince--let me introduce you, the last of the Muishkins, a relative of your own, my dear, or at least of the same name. Receive him kindly, please. They'll bring in lunch directly, prince; you must stop and have some, but you must excuse me. I'm in a hurry, I must be off--" "We all know where YOU must be off to!" said Mrs. Epanchin, in a meaning voice. "Yes, yes--I must hurry away, I'm late! Look here, dears, let him write you something in your albums; you've no idea what a wonderful caligraphist he is, wonderful talent! He has just written out 'Abbot Pafnute signed this' for me. Well, au revoir!" "Stop a minute; where are you off to? Who is this abbot?" cried Mrs. Epanchin to her retreating husband in a tone of excited annoyance. "Yes, my dear, it was an old abbot of that name-I must be off to see the count, he's waiting for me, I'm late--Good-bye! Au revoir, prince!"--and the general bolted at full speed. "Oh, yes--I know what count you're going to see!" remarked his wife in a cutting manner, as she turned her angry eyes on the prince. "Now then, what's all this about?--What abbot--Who's Pafnute?" she added, brusquely. "Mamma!" said Alexandra, shocked at her rudeness. Aglaya stamped her foot. "Nonsense! Let me alone!" said the angry mother. "Now then, prince, sit down here, no, nearer, come nearer the light! I want to have a good look at you. So, now then, who is this abbot?" "Abbot Pafnute," said our friend, seriously and with deference. "Pafnute, yes. And who was he?" Mrs. Epanchin put these questions hastily and brusquely, and when the prince answered she nodded her head sagely at each word he said. "The Abbot Pafnute lived in the fourteenth century," began the prince; "he was in charge of one of the monasteries on the Volga, about where our present Kostroma government lies. He went to Oreol and helped in the great matters then going on in the religious world; he signed an edict there, and I have seen a print of his signature; it struck me, so I copied it. When the general asked me, in his study, to write something for him, to show my handwriting, I wrote 'The Abbot Pafnute signed this,' in the exact handwriting of the abbot. The general liked it very much, and that's why he recalled it just now. " "Aglaya, make a note of 'Pafnute,' or we shall forget him. H'm! and where is this signature?" "I think it was left on the general's table." "Let it be sent for at once!" "Oh, I'll write you a new one in half a minute," said the prince, "if you like!" "Of course, mamma!" said Alexandra. "But let's have lunch now, we are all hungry!" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 32 "Yes; come along, prince," said the mother, "are you very hungry?" "Yes; I must say that I am pretty hungry, thanks very much." "H'm! I like to see that you know your manners; and you are by no means such a person as the general thought fit to describe you. Come along; you sit here, opposite to me," she continued, "I wish to be able to see your face. Alexandra, Adelaida, look after the prince! He doesn't seem so very ill, does he? I don't think he requires a napkin under his chin, after all; are you accustomed to having one on, prince?" "Formerly, when I was seven years old or so. I believe I wore one; but now I usually hold my napkin on my knee when I eat." "Of course, of course! And about your fits?" "Fits?" asked the prince, slightly surprised. "I very seldom have fits nowadays. I don't know how it may be here, though; they say the climate may be bad for me. " "He talks very well, you know!" said Mrs. Epanchin, who still continued to nod at each word the prince spoke. "I really did not expect it at all; in fact, I suppose it was all stuff and nonsense on the general's part, as usual. Eat away, prince, and tell me where you were born, and where you were brought up. I wish to know all about you, you interest me very much!" The prince expressed his thanks once more, and eating heartily the while, recommenced the narrative of his life in Switzerland, all of which we have heard before. Mrs. Epanchin became more and more pleased with her guest; the girls, too, listened with considerable attention. In talking over the question of relationship it turned out that the prince was very well up in the matter and knew his pedigree off by heart. It was found that scarcely any connection existed between himself and Mrs. Epanchin, but the talk, and the opportunity of conversing about her family tree, gratified the latter exceedingly, and she rose from the table in great good humour. "Let's all go to my boudoir," she said, "and they shall bring some coffee in there. That's the room where we all assemble and busy ourselves as we like best," she explained. "Alexandra, my eldest, here, plays the piano, or reads or sews; Adelaida paints landscapes and portraits (but never finishes any); and Aglaya sits and does nothing. I don't work too much, either. Here we are, now; sit down, prince, near the fire and talk to us. I want to hear you relate something. I wish to make sure of you first and then tell my old friend, Princess Bielokonski, about you. I wish you to know all the good people and to interest them. Now then, begin!" "Mamma, it's rather a strange order, that!" said Adelaida, who was fussing among her paints and paint-brushes at the easel. Aglaya and Alexandra had settled themselves with folded hands on a sofa, evidently meaning to be listeners. The prince felt that the general attention was concentrated upon himself. "I should refuse to say a word if I were ordered to tell a story like that!" observed Aglaya. "Why? what's there strange about it? He has a tongue. Why shouldn't he tell us something? I want to judge whether he is a good story-teller; anything you like, prince-how you liked Switzerland, what was your first impression, anything. You'll see, he'll begin directly and tell us all about it beautifully." "The impression was forcible--" the prince began. "There, you see, girls," said the impatient lady, "he has begun, you see." "Well, then, LET him talk, mamma," said Alexandra. "This prince is a great humbug and by no means an by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 33 idiot," she whispered to Aglaya. "Oh, I saw that at once," replied the latter. "I don't think it at all nice of him to play a part. What does he wish to gain by it, I wonder?" "My first impression was a very strong one," repeated the prince. "When they took me away from Russia, I remember I passed through many German towns and looked out of the windows, but did not trouble so much as to ask questions about them. This was after a long series of fits. I always used to fall into a sort of torpid condition after such a series, and lost my memory almost entirely; and though I was not altogether without reason at such times, yet I had no logical power of thought. This would continue for three or four days, and then I would recover myself again. I remember my melancholy was intolerable; I felt inclined to cry; I sat and wondered and wondered uncomfortably; the consciousness that everything was strange weighed terribly upon me; I could understand that it was all foreign and strange. I recollect I awoke from this state for the first time at Basle, one evening; the bray of a donkey aroused me, a donkey in the town market. I saw the donkey and was extremely pleased with it, and from that moment my head seemed to clear." "A donkey? How strange! Yet it is not strange. Anyone of us might fall in love with a donkey! It happened in mythological times," said Madame Epanchin, looking wrathfully at her daughters, who had begun to laugh. "Go on, prince." "Since that evening I have been specially fond of donkeys. I began to ask questions about them, for I had never seen one before; and I at once came to the conclusion that this must be one of the most useful of animals--strong, willing, patient, cheap; and, thanks to this donkey, I began to like the whole country I was travelling through; and my melancholy passed away." "All this is very strange and interesting," said Mrs. Epanchin. "Now let's leave the donkey and go on to other matters. What are you laughing at, Aglaya? and you too, Adelaida? The prince told us his experiences very cleverly; he saw the donkey himself, and what have you ever seen? YOU have never been abroad." "I have seen a donkey though, mamma!" said Aglaya. "And I've heard one!" said Adelaida. All three of the girls laughed out loud, and the prince laughed with them. "Well, it's too bad of you," said mamma. "You must forgive them, prince; they are good girls. I am very fond of them, though I often have to be scolding them; they are all as silly and mad as march hares." "Oh, why shouldn't they laugh?" said the prince. " I shouldn't have let the chance go by in their place, I know. But I stick up for the donkey, all the same; he's a patient, good-natured fellow." "Are you a patient man, prince? I ask out of curiosity," said Mrs. Epanchin. All laughed again. "Oh, that wretched donkey again, I see!" cried the lady. "I assure you, prince, I was not guilty of the least--" "Insinuation? Oh! I assure you, I take your word for it." And the prince continued laughing merrily. "I must say it's very nice of you to laugh. I see you really are a kind-hearted fellow," said Mrs. Epanchin. "I'm not always kind, though." "I am kind myself, and ALWAYS kind too, if you please!" she retorted, unexpectedly; "and that is my chief by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 34 fault, for one ought not to be always kind. I am often angry with these girls and their father; but the worst of it is, I am always kindest when I am cross. I was very angry just before you came, and Aglaya there read me a lesson--thanks, Aglaya, dear--come and kiss me--there--that's enough" she added, as Aglaya came forward and kissed her lips and then her hand. "Now then, go on, prince. Perhaps you can think of something more exciting than about the donkey, eh?" "I must say, again, I can't understand how you can expect anyone to tell you stories straight away, so," said Adelaida. "I know I never could!" "Yes, but the prince can, because he is clever--cleverer than you are by ten or twenty times, if you like. There, that's so, prince; and seriously, let's drop the donkey now--what else did you see abroad, besides the donkey?" "Yes, but the prince told us about the donkey very cleverly, all the same," said Alexandra. "I have always been most interested to hear how people go mad and get well again, and that sort of thing. Especially when it happens suddenly." "Quite so, quite so!" cried Mrs. Epanchin, delighted. "I see you CAN be sensible now and then, Alexandra. You were speaking of Switzerland, prince?" "Yes. We came to Lucerne, and I was taken out in a boat. I felt how lovely it was, but the loveliness weighed upon me somehow or other, and made me feel melancholy." "Why?" asked Alexandra. "I don't know; I always feel like that when I look at the beauties of nature for the first time; but then, I was ill at that time, of course!" "Oh, but I should like to see it!" said Adelaida; "and I don't know WHEN we shall ever go abroad. I've been two years looking out for a good subject for a picture. I've done all I know. 'The North and South I know by heart,' as our poet observes. Do help me to a subject, prince." "Oh, but I know nothing about painting. It seems to me one only has to look, and paint what one sees." "But I don't know HOW to see!" "Nonsense, what rubbish you talk!" the mother struck in. "Not know how to see! Open your eyes and look! If you can't see here, you won't see abroad either. Tell us what you saw yourself, prince!" "Yes, that's better," said Adelaida; "the prince learned to see abroad." "Oh, I hardly know! You see, I only went to restore my health. I don't know whether I learned to see, exactly. I was very happy, however, nearly all the time." "Happy! you can be happy?" cried Aglaya. "Then how can you say you did not learn to see? I should think you could teach us to see!" "Oh! DO teach us," laughed Adelaida. "Oh! I can't do that," said the prince, laughing too. "I lived almost all the while in one little Swiss village; what can I teach you? At first I was only just not absolutely dull; then my health began to improve--then every day became dearer and more precious to me, and the longer I stayed, the dearer became the time to me; so much so that I could not help observing it; but why this was so, it would be difficult to say." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 35 "So that you didn't care to go away anywhere else?" "Well, at first I did; I was restless; I didn't know however I should manage to support life--you know there are such moments, especially in solitude. There was a waterfall near us, such a lovely thin streak of water, like a thread but white and moving. It fell from a great height, but it looked quite low, and it was half a mile away, though it did not seem fifty paces. I loved to listen to it at night, but it was then that I became so restless. Sometimes I went and climbed the mountain and stood there in the midst of the tall pines, all alone in the terrible silence, with our little village in the distance, and the sky so blue, and the sun so bright, and an old ruined castle on the mountain-side, far away. I used to watch the line where earth and sky met, and longed to go and seek there the key of all mysteries, thinking that I might find there a new life, perhaps some great city where life should be grander and richer--and then it struck me that life may be grand enough even in a prison." "I read that last most praiseworthy thought in my manual, when I was twelve years old," said Aglaya. "All this is pure philosophy," said Adelaida. "You are a philosopher, prince, and have come here to instruct us in your views." "Perhaps you are right," said the prince, smiling. "I think I am a philosopher, perhaps, and who knows, perhaps I do wish to teach my views of things to those I meet with?" "Your philosophy is rather like that of an old woman we know, who is rich and yet does nothing but try how little she can spend. She talks of nothing but money all day. Your great philosophical idea of a grand life in a prison and your four happy years in that Swiss village are like this, rather," said Aglaya. "As to life in a prison, of course there may be two opinions," said the prince. "I once heard the story of a man who lived twelve years in a prison--I heard it from the man himself. He was one of the persons under treatment with my professor; he had fits, and attacks of melancholy, then he would weep, and once he tried to commit suicide. HIS life in prison was sad enough; his only acquaintances were spiders and a tree that grew outside his grating-but I think I had better tell you of another man I met last year. There was a very strange feature in this case, strange because of its extremely rare occurrence. This man had once been brought to the scaffold in company with several others, and had had the sentence of death by shooting passed upon him for some political crime. Twenty minutes later he had been reprieved and some other punishment substituted; but the interval between the two sentences, twenty minutes, or at least a quarter of an hour, had been passed in the certainty that within a few minutes he must die. I was very anxious to hear him speak of his impressions during that dreadful time, and I several times inquired of him as to what he thought and felt. He remembered everything with the most accurate and extraordinary distinctness, and declared that he would never forget a single iota of the experience. "About twenty paces from the scaffold, where he had stood to hear the sentence, were three posts, fixed in the ground, to which to fasten the criminals (of whom there were several). The first three criminals were taken to the posts, dressed in long white tunics, with white caps drawn over their faces, so that they could not see the rifles pointed at them. Then a group of soldiers took their stand opposite to each post. My friend was the eighth on the list, and therefore he would have been among the third lot to go up. A priest went about among them with a cross: and there was about five minutes of time left for him to live. "He said that those five minutes seemed to him to be a most interminable period, an enormous wealth of time; he seemed to be living, in these minutes, so many lives that there was no need as yet to think of that last moment, so that he made several arrangements, dividing up the time into portions--one for saying farewell to his companions, two minutes for that; then a couple more for thinking over his own life and career and all about himself; and another minute for a last look around. He remembered having divided his time like this quite well. While saying good- bye to his friends he recollected asking one of them some very usual everyday question, and being much interested in the answer. Then having bade farewell, he embarked upon those two by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 36 minutes which he had allotted to looking into himself; he knew beforehand what he was going to think about. He wished to put it to himself as quickly and clearly as possible, that here was he, a living, thinking man, and that in three minutes he would be nobody; or if somebody or something, then what and where? He thought he would decide this question once for all in these last three minutes. A little way off there stood a church, and its gilded spire glittered in the sun. He remembered staring stubbornly at this spire, and at the rays of light sparkling from it. He could not tear his eyes from these rays of light; he got the idea that these rays were his new nature, and that in three minutes he would become one of them, amalgamated somehow with them. "The repugnance to what must ensue almost immediately, and the uncertainty, were dreadful, he said; but worst of all was the idea, 'What should I do if I were not to die now? What if I were to return to life again? What an eternity of days, and all mine! How I should grudge and count up every minute of it, so as to waste not a single instant!' He said that this thought weighed so upon him and became such a terrible burden upon his brain that he could not bear it, and wished they would shoot him quickly and have done with it." The prince paused and all waited, expecting him to go on again and finish the story. "Is that all?" asked Aglaya. "All? Yes," said the prince, emerging from a momentary reverie. "And why did you tell us this?" "Oh, I happened to recall it, that's all! It fitted into the conversation--" "You probably wish to deduce, prince," said Alexandra, "that moments of time cannot be reckoned by money value, and that sometimes five minutes are worth priceless treasures. All this is very praiseworthy; but may I ask about this friend of yours, who told you the terrible experience of his life? He was reprieved, you say; in other words, they did restore to him that 'eternity of days.' What did he do with these riches of time? Did he keep careful account of his minutes?" "Oh no, he didn't! I asked him myself. He said that he had not lived a bit as he had intended, and had wasted many, and many a minute." "Very well, then there's an experiment, and the thing is proved; one cannot live and count each moment; say what you like, but one CANNOT." "That is true," said the prince, "I have thought so myself. And yet, why shouldn't one do it?" "You think, then, that you could live more wisely than other people?" said Aglaya. "I have had that idea." "And you have it still?" "Yes--I have it still," the prince replied. He had contemplated Aglaya until now, with a pleasant though rather timid smile, but as the last words fell from his lips he began to laugh, and looked at her merrily. "You are not very modest!" said she. "But how brave you are!" said he. "You are laughing, and I-- that man's tale impressed me so much, that I by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 37 dreamt of it afterwards; yes, I dreamt of those five minutes . . ." He looked at his listeners again with that same serious, searching expression. "You are not angry with me?" he asked suddenly, and with a kind of nervous hurry, although he looked them straight in the face. "Why should we be angry?" they cried. "Only because I seem to be giving you a lecture, all the time!" At this they laughed heartily. "Please don't be angry with me," continued the prince. "I know very well that I have seen less of life than other people, and have less knowledge of it. I must appear to speak strangely sometimes . . ." He said the last words nervously. "You say you have been happy, and that proves you have lived, not less, but more than other people. Why make all these excuses?" interrupted Aglaya in a mocking tone of voice. "Besides, you need not mind about lecturing us; you have nothing to boast of. With your quietism, one could live happily for a hundred years at least. One might show you the execution of a felon, or show you one's little finger. You could draw a moral from either, and be quite satisfied. That sort of existence is easy enough." "I can't understand why you always fly into a temper," said Mrs. Epanchin, who had been listening to the conversation and examining the faces of the speakers in turn. "I do not understand what you mean. What has your little finger to do with it? The prince talks well, though he is not amusing. He began all right, but now he seems sad." "Never mind, mamma! Prince, I wish you had seen an execution," said Aglaya. "I should like to ask you a question about that, if you had." "I have seen an execution," said the prince. "You have!" cried Aglaya. "I might have guessed it. That's a fitting crown to the rest of the story. If you have seen an execution, how can you say you lived happily all the while?" "But is there capital punishment where you were?" asked Adelaida. "I saw it at Lyons. Schneider took us there, and as soon as we arrived we came in for that." "Well, and did you like it very much? Was it very edifying and instructive?" asked Aglaya. "No, I didn't like it at all, and was ill after seeing it; but I confess I stared as though my eyes were fixed to the sight. I could not tear them away." "I, too, should have been unable to tear my eyes away," said Aglaya. "They do not at all approve of women going to see an execution there. The women who do go are condemned for it afterwards in the newspapers." "That is, by contending that it is not a sight for women they admit that it is a sight for men. I congratulate by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 38 them on the deduction. I suppose you quite agree with them, prince?" "Tell us about the execution," put in Adelaida. "I would much rather not, just now," said the prince, a little disturbed and frowning slightly; " You don't seem to want to tell us," said Aglaya, with a mocking air. " No,--the thing is, I was telling all about the execution a little while ago, and--" "Whom did you tell about it?" "The man-servant, while I was waiting to see the general." "Our man-servant?" exclaimed several voices at once. "Yes, the one who waits in the entrance hall, a greyish, red- faced man--" "The prince is clearly a democrat," remarked Aglaya. "Well, if you could tell Aleksey about it, surely you can tell us too." "I do so want to hear about it," repeated Adelaida. "Just now, I confess," began the prince, with more animation, "when you asked me for a subject for a picture, I confess I had serious thoughts of giving you one. I thought of asking you to draw the face of a criminal, one minute before the fall of the guillotine, while the wretched man is still standing on the scaffold, preparatory to placing his neck on the block." "What, his face? only his face?" asked Adelaida. "That would be a strange subject indeed. And what sort of a picture would that make?" "Oh, why not?" the prince insisted, with some warmth. "When I was in Basle I saw a picture very much in that style--I should like to tell you about it; I will some time or other; it struck me very forcibly." "Oh, you shall tell us about the Basle picture another time; now we must have all about the execution," said Adelaida. "Tell us about that face as; it appeared to your imagination-how should it be drawn?--just the face alone, do you mean?" "It was just a minute before the execution," began the prince, readily, carried away by the recollection and evidently forgetting everything else in a moment; "just at the instant when he stepped off the ladder on to the scaffold. He happened to look in my direction: I saw his eyes and understood all, at once--but how am I to describe it? I do so wish you or somebody else could draw it, you, if possible. I thought at the time what a picture it would make. You must imagine all that went before, of course, all--all. He had lived in the prison for some time and had not expected that the execution would take place for at least a week yet--he had counted on all the formalities and so on taking time; but it so happened that his papers had been got ready quickly. At five o'clock in the morning he was asleep--it was October, and at five in the morning it was cold and dark. The governor of the prison comes in on tip-toe and touches the sleeping man's shoulder gently. He starts up. 'What is it?' he says. 'The execution is fixed for ten o'clock.' He was only just awake, and would not believe at first, but began to argue that his papers would not be out for a week, and so on. When he was wide awake and realized the truth, he became very silent and argued no more--so they say; but after a bit he said: 'It comes very hard on one so suddenly' and then he was silent again and said nothing. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 39 "The three or four hours went by, of course, in necessary preparations--the priest, breakfast, (coffee, meat, and some wine they gave him; doesn't it seem ridiculous?) And yet I believe these people give them a good breakfast out of pure kindness of heart, and believe that they are doing a good action. Then he is dressed, and then begins the procession through the town to the scaffold. I think he, too, must feel that he has an age to live still while they cart him along. Probably he thought, on the way, 'Oh, I have a long, long time yet. Three streets of life yet! When we've passed this street there'll be that other one; and then that one where the baker's shop is on the right; and when shall we get there? It's ages, ages!' Around him are crowds shouting, yelling--ten thousand faces, twenty thousand eyes. All this has to be endured, and especially the thought: 'Here are ten thousand men, and not one of them is going to be executed, and yet I am to die.' Well, all that is preparatory. "At the scaffold there is a ladder, and just there he burst into tears--and this was a strong man, and a terribly wicked one, they say! There was a priest with him the whole time, talking; even in the cart as they drove along, he talked and talked. Probably the other heard nothing; he would begin to listen now and then, and at the third word or so he had forgotten all about it. "At last he began to mount the steps; his legs were tied, so that he had to take very small steps. The priest, who seemed to be a wise man, had stopped talking now, and only held the cross for the wretched fellow to kiss. At the foot of the ladder he had been pale enough; but when he set foot on the scaffold at the top, his face suddenly became the colour of paper, positively like white notepaper. His legs must have become suddenly feeble and helpless, and he felt a choking in his throat--you know the sudden feeling one has in moments of terrible fear, when one does not lose one's wits, but is absolutely powerless to move? If some dreadful thing were suddenly to happen; if a house were just about to fall on one;--don't you know how one would long to sit down and shut one's eyes and wait, and wait? Well, when this terrible feeling came over him, the priest quickly pressed the cross to his lips, without a word--a little silver cross it was- and he kept on pressing it to the man's lips every second. And whenever the cross touched his lips, the eyes would open for a moment, and the legs moved once, and he kissed the cross greedily, hurriedly--just as though he were anxious to catch hold of something in case of its being useful to him afterwards, though he could hardly have had any connected religious thoughts at the time. And so up to the very block. "How strange that criminals seldom swoon at such a moment! On the contrary, the brain is especially active, and works incessantly-- probably hard, hard, hard--like an engine at full pressure. I imagine that various thoughts must beat loud and fast through his head--all unfinished ones, and strange, funny thoughts, very likely!--like this, for instance: 'That man is looking at me, and he has a wart on his forehead! and the executioner has burst one of his buttons, and the lowest one is all rusty!' And meanwhile he notices and remembers everything. There is one point that cannot be forgotten, round which everything else dances and turns about; and because of this point he cannot faint, and this lasts until the very final quarter of a second, when the wretched neck is on the block and the victim listens and waits and KNOWS-- that's the point, he KNOWS that he is just NOW about to die, and listens for the rasp of the iron over his head. If I lay there, I should certainly listen for that grating sound, and hear it, too! There would probably be but the tenth part of an instant left to hear it in, but one would certainly hear it. And imagine, some people declare that when the head flies off it is CONSCIOUS of having flown off! Just imagine what a thing to realize! Fancy if consciousness were to last for even five seconds! "Draw the scaffold so that only the top step of the ladder comes in clearly. The criminal must be just stepping on to it, his face as white as note-paper. The priest is holding the cross to his blue lips, and the criminal kisses it, and knows and sees and understands everything. The cross and the head--there's your picture; the priest and the executioner, with his two assistants, and a few heads and eyes below. Those might come in as subordinate accessories--a sort of mist. There's a picture for you." The prince paused, and looked around. "Certainly that isn't much like quietism," murmured Alexandra, half to herself. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 40 "Now tell us about your love affairs," said Adelaida, after a moment's pause. The prince gazed at her in amazement. "You know," Adelaida continued, "you owe us a description of the Basle picture; but first I wish to hear how you fell in love. Don't deny the fact, for you did, of course. Besides, you stop philosophizing when you are telling about anything." "Why are you ashamed of your stories the moment after you have told them?" asked Aglaya, suddenly. "How silly you are!" said Mrs. Epanchin, looking indignantly towards the last speaker. "Yes, that wasn't a clever remark," said Alexandra. "Don't listen to her, prince," said Mrs. Epanchin; "she says that sort of thing out of mischief. Don't think anything of their nonsense, it means nothing. They love to chaff, but they like you. I can see it in their faces--I know their faces." "I know their faces, too," said the prince, with a peculiar stress on the words. "How so?" asked Adelaida, with curiosity. "What do YOU know about our faces?" exclaimed the other two, in chorus. But the prince was silent and serious. All awaited his reply. "I'll tell you afterwards," he said quietly. "Ah, you want to arouse our curiosity!" said Aglaya. "And how terribly solemn you are about it!" "Very well," interrupted Adelaida, "then if you can read faces so well, you must have been in love. Come now; I've guessed--let's have the secret!" "I have not been in love," said the prince, as quietly and seriously as before. "I have been happy in another way." "How, how?" "Well, I'll tell you," said the prince, apparently in a deep reverie. VI. "Here you all are," began the prince, "settling yourselves down to listen to me with so much curiosity, that if I do not satisfy you you will probably be angry with me. No, no! I'm only joking!" he added, hastily, with a smile. "Well, then--they were all children there, and I was always among children and only with children. They were the children of the village in which I lived, and they went to the school there--all of them. I did not teach them, oh no; there was a master for that, one Jules Thibaut. I may have taught them some things, but I was among them just as an outsider, and I passed all four years of my life there among them. I wished for nothing better; I used to tell them everything and hid nothing from them. Their fathers and relations were very angry with me, because the children could do nothing without me at last, and used to throng after me at all times. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 41 The schoolmaster was my greatest enemy in the end! I had many enemies, and all because of the children. Even Schneider reproached me. What were they afraid of? One can tell a child everything, anything. I have often been struck by the fact that parents know their children so little. They should not conceal so much from them. How well even little children understand that their parents conceal things from them, because they consider them too young to understand! Children are capable of giving advice in the most important matters. How can one deceive these dear little birds, when they look at one so sweetly and confidingly? I call them birds because there is nothing in the world better than birds! "However, most of the people were angry with me about one and the same thing; but Thibaut simply was jealous of me. At first he had wagged his head and wondered how it was that the children understood what I told them so well, and could not learn from him; and he laughed like anything when I replied that neither he nor I could teach them very much, but that THEY might teach us a good deal. "How he could hate me and tell scandalous stories about me, living among children as he did, is what I cannot understand. Children soothe and heal the wounded heart. I remember there was one poor fellow at our professor's who was being treated for madness, and you have no idea what those children did for him, eventually. I don't think he was mad, but only terribly unhappy. But I'll tell you all about him another day. Now I must get on with this story. "The children did not love me at first; I was such a sickly, awkward kind of a fellow then--and I know I am ugly. Besides, I was a foreigner. The children used to laugh at me, at first; and they even went so far as to throw stones at me, when they saw me kiss Marie. I only kissed her once in my life--no, no, don't laugh!" The prince hastened to suppress the smiles of his audience at this point. "It was not a matter of LOVE at all! If only you knew what a miserable creature she was, you would have pitied her, just as I did. She belonged to our village. Her mother was an old, old woman, and they used to sell string and thread, and soap and tobacco, out of the window of their little house, and lived on the pittance they gained by this trade. The old woman was ill and very old, and could hardly move. Marie was her daughter, a girl of twenty, weak and thin and consumptive; but still she did heavy work at the houses around, day by day. Well, one fine day a commercial traveller betrayed her and carried her off; and a week later he deserted her. She came home dirty, draggled, and shoeless; she had walked for a whole week without shoes; she had slept in the fields, and caught a terrible cold; her feet were swollen and sore, and her hands torn and scratched all over. She never had been pretty even before; but her eyes were quiet, innocent, kind eyes. "She was very quiet always--and I remember once, when she had suddenly begun singing at her work, everyone said, 'Marie tried to sing today!' and she got so chaffed that she was silent for ever after. She had been treated kindly in the place before; but when she came back now--ill and shunned and miserable--not one of them all had the slightest sympathy for her. Cruel people! Oh, what hazy understandings they have on such matters! Her mother was the first to show the way. She received her wrathfully, unkindly, and with contempt. 'You have disgraced me,' she said. She was the first to cast her into ignominy; but when they all heard that Marie had returned to the village, they ran out to see her and crowded into the little cottage--old men, children, women, girls--such a hurrying, stamping, greedy crowd. Marie was lying on the floor at the old woman's feet, hungry, torn, draggled, crying, miserable. "When everyone crowded into the room she hid her face in her dishevelled hair and lay cowering on the floor. Everyone looked at her as though she were a piece of dirt off the road. The old men scolded and condemned, and the young ones laughed at her. The women condemned her too, and looked at her contemptuously, just as though she were some loathsome insect. "Her mother allowed all this to go on, and nodded her head and encouraged them. The old woman was very ill at that time, and knew she was dying (she really did die a couple of months later), and though she felt the end approaching she never thought of forgiving her daughter, to the very day of her death. She would not even speak to her. She made her sleep on straw in a shed, and hardly gave her food enough to support life. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 42 "Marie was very gentle to her mother, and nursed her, and did everything for her; but the old woman accepted all her services without a word and never showed her the slightest kindness. Marie bore all this; and I could see when I got to know her that she thought it quite right and fitting, considering herself the lowest and meanest of creatures. "When the old woman took to her bed finally, the other old women in the village sat with her by turns, as the custom is there; and then Marie was quite driven out of the house. They gave her no food at all, and she could not get any work in the village; none would employ her. The men seemed to consider her no longer a woman, they said such dreadful things to her. Sometimes on Sundays, if they were drunk enough, they used to throw her a penny or two, into the mud, and Marie would silently pick up the money. She had began to spit blood at that time. "At last her rags became so tattered and torn that she was ashamed of appearing in the village any longer. The children used to pelt her with mud; so she begged to be taken on as assistant cowherd, but the cowherd would not have her. Then she took to helping him without leave; and he saw how valuable her assistance was to him, and did not drive her away again; on the contrary, he occasionally gave her the remnants of his dinner, bread and cheese. He considered that he was being very kind. When the mother died, the village parson was not ashamed to hold Marie up to public derision and shame. Marie was standing at the coffin's head, in all her rags, crying. "A crowd of people had collected to see how she would cry. The parson, a young fellow ambitious of becoming a great preacher, began his sermon and pointed to Marie. 'There,' he said, 'there is the cause of the death of this venerable woman'--(which was a lie, because she had been ill for at least two years)--'there she stands before you, and dares not lift her eyes from the ground, because she knows that the finger of God is upon her. Look at her tatters and rags--the badge of those who lose their virtue. Who is she? her daughter!' and so on to the end. "And just fancy, this infamy pleased them, all of them, nearly. Only the children had altered--for then they were all on my side and had learned to love Marie. "This is how it was: I had wished to do something for Marie; I longed to give her some money, but I never had a farthing while I was there. But I had a little diamond pin, and this I sold to a travelling pedlar; he gave me eight francs for it--it was worth at least forty. "I long sought to meet Marie alone; and at last I did meet her, on the hillside beyond the village. I gave her the eight francs and asked her to take care of the money because I could get no more; and then I kissed her and said that she was not to suppose I kissed her with any evil motives or because I was in love with her, for that I did so solely out of pity for her, and because from the first I had not accounted her as guilty so much as unfortunate. I longed to console and encourage her somehow, and to assure her that she was not the low, base thing which she and others strove to make out; but I don't think she understood me. She stood before me, dreadfully ashamed of herself, and with downcast eyes; and when I had finished she kissed my hand. I would have kissed hers, but she drew it away. Just at this moment the whole troop of children saw us. (I found out afterwards that they had long kept a watch upon me.) They all began whistling and clapping their hands, and laughing at us. Marie ran away at once; and when I tried to talk to them, they threw stones at me. All the village heard of it the same day, and Marie's position became worse than ever. The children would not let her pass now in the streets, but annoyed her and threw dirt at her more than before. They used to run after her--she racing away with her poor feeble lungs panting and gasping, and they pelting her and shouting abuse at her. "Once I had to interfere by force; and after that I took to speaking to them every day and whenever I could. Occasionally they stopped and listened; but they teased Marie all the same. "I told them how unhappy Marie was, and after a while they stopped their abuse of her, and let her go by by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 43 silently. Little by little we got into the way of conversing together, the children and I. I concealed nothing from them, I told them all. They listened very attentively and soon began to be sorry for Marie. At last some of them took to saying 'Good-morning' to her, kindly, when they met her. It is the custom there to salute anyone you meet with 'Good-morning' whether acquainted or not. I can imagine how astonished Marie was at these first greetings from the children. "Once two little girls got hold of some food and took it to her, and came back and told me. They said she had burst into tears, and that they loved her very much now. Very soon after that they all became fond of Marie, and at the same time they began to develop the greatest affection for myself. They often came to me and begged me to tell them stories. I think I must have told stories well, for they did so love to hear them. At last I took to reading up interesting things on purpose to pass them on to the little ones, and this went on for all the rest of my time there, three years. Later, when everyone--even Schneider--was angry with me for hiding nothing from the children, I pointed out how foolish it was, for they always knew things, only they learnt them in a way that soiled their minds but not so from me. One has only to remember one's own childhood to admit the truth of this. But nobody was convinced. . . It was two weeks before her mother died that I had kissed Marie; and when the clergyman preached that sermon the children were all on my side. "When I told them what a shame it was of the parson to talk as he had done, and explained my reason, they were so angry that some of them went and broke his windows with stones. Of course I stopped them, for that was not right, but all the village heard of it, and how I caught it for spoiling the children! Everyone discovered now that the little ones had taken to being fond of Marie, and their parents were terribly alarmed; but Marie was so happy. The children were forbidden to meet her; but they used to run out of the village to the herd and take her food and things; and sometimes just ran off there and kissed her, and said, 'Je vous aime, Marie!' and then trotted back again. They imagined that I was in love with Marie, and this was the only point on which I did not undeceive them, for they got such enjoyment out of it. And what delicacy and tenderness they showed! "In the evening I used to walk to the waterfall. There was a spot there which was quite closed in and hidden from view by large trees; and to this spot the children used to come to me. They could not bear that their dear Leon should love a poor girl without shoes to her feet and dressed all in rags and tatters. So, would you believe it, they actually clubbed together, somehow, and bought her shoes and stockings, and some linen, and even a dress! I can't understand how they managed it, but they did it, all together. When I asked them about it they only laughed and shouted, and the little girls clapped their hands and kissed me. I sometimes went to see Marie secretly, too. She had become very ill, and could hardly walk. She still went with the herd, but could not help the herdsman any longer. She used to sit on a stone near, and wait there almost motionless all day, till the herd went home. Her consumption was so advanced, and she was so weak, that she used to sit with closed eyes, breathing heavily. Her face was as thin as a skeleton's, and sweat used to stand on her white brow in large drops. I always found her sitting just like that. I used to come up quietly to look at her; but Marie would hear me, open her eyes, and tremble violently as she kissed my hands. I did not take my hand away because it made her happy to have it, and so she would sit and cry quietly. Sometimes she tried to speak; but it was very difficult to understand her. She was almost like a madwoman, with excitement and ecstasy, whenever I came. Occasionally the children came with me; when they did so, they would stand some way off and keep guard over us, so as to tell me if anybody came near. This was a great pleasure to them. "When we left her, Marie used to relapse at once into her old condition, and sit with closed eyes and motionless limbs. One day she could not go out at all, and remained at home all alone in the empty hut; but the children very soon became aware of the fact, and nearly all of them visited her that day as she lay alone and helpless in her miserable bed. "For two days the children looked after her, and then, when the village people got to know that Marie was really dying, some of the old women came and took it in turns to sit by her and look after her a bit. I think they began to be a little sorry for her in the village at last; at all events they did not interfere with the children any more, on her account. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 44 "Marie lay in a state of uncomfortable delirium the whole while; she coughed dreadfully. The old women would not let the children stay in the room; but they all collected outside the window each morning, if only for a moment, and shouted 'Bon jour, notre bonne Marie!' and Marie no sooner caught sight of, or heard them, and she became quite animated at once, and, in spite of the old women, would try to sit up and nod her head and smile at them, and thank them. The little ones used to bring her nice things and sweets to eat, but she could hardly touch anything. Thanks to them, I assure you, the girl died almost perfectly happy. She almost forgot her misery, and seemed to accept their love as a sort of symbol of pardon for her offence, though she never ceased to consider herself a dreadful sinner. They used to flutter at her window just like little birds, calling out: 'Nous t'aimons, Marie!' "She died very soon; I had thought she would live much longer. The day before her death I went to see her for the last time, just before sunset. I think she recognized me, for she pressed my hand. "Next morning they came and told me that Marie was dead. The children could not be restrained now; they went and covered her coffin with flowers, and put a wreath of lovely blossoms on her head. The pastor did not throw any more shameful words at the poor dead woman; but there were very few people at the funeral. However, when it came to carrying the coffin, all the children rushed up, to carry it themselves. Of course they could not do it alone, but they insisted on helping, and walked alongside and behind, crying. "They have planted roses all round her grave, and every year they look alter the flowers and make Marie's resting-place as beautiful as they can. I was in ill odour after all this with the parents of the children, and especially with the parson and schoolmaster. Schneider was obliged to promise that I should not meet them and talk to them; but we conversed from a distance by signs, and they used to write me sweet little notes. Afterwards I came closer than ever to those little souls, but even then it was very dear to me, to have them so fond of me. "Schneider said that I did the children great harm by my pernicious 'system'; what nonsense that was! And what did he mean by my system? He said afterwards that he believed I was a child myself--just before I came away. 'You have the form and face of an adult' he said, 'but as regards soul, and character, and perhaps even intelligence, you are a child in the completest sense of the word, and always will be, if you live to be sixty.' I laughed very much, for of course that is nonsense. But it is a fact that I do not care to be among grown-up people and much prefer the society of children. However kind people may be to me, I never feel quite at home with them, and am always glad to get back to my little companions. Now my companions have always been children, not because I was a child myself once, but because young things attract me. On one of the first days of my stay in Switzerland, I was strolling about alone and miserable, when I came upon the children rushing noisily out of school, with their slates and bags, and books, their games, their laughter and shouts--and my soul went out to them. I stopped and laughed happily as I watched their little feet moving so quickly. Girls and boys, laughing and crying; for as they went home many of them found time to fight and make peace, to weep and play. I forgot my troubles in looking at them. And then, all those three years, I tried to understand why men should be for ever tormenting themselves. I lived the life of a child there, and thought I should never leave the little village; indeed, I was far from thinking that I should ever return to Russia. But at last I recognized the fact that Schneider could not keep me any longer. And then something so important happened, that Schneider himself urged me to depart. I am going to see now if can get good advice about it. Perhaps my lot in life will be changed; but that is not the principal thing. The principal thing is the entire change that has already come over me. I left many things behind me--too many. They have gone. On the journey I said to myself, 'I am going into the world of men. I don't know much, perhaps, but a new life has begun for me.' I made up my mind to be honest, and steadfast in accomplishing my task. Perhaps I shall meet with troubles and many disappointments, but I have made up my mind to be polite and sincere to everyone; more cannot be asked of me. People may consider me a child if they like. I am often called an idiot, and at one time I certainly was so ill that I was nearly as bad as an idiot; but I am not an idiot now. How can I possibly be so when I know myself that I am considered one? by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 45 "When I received a letter from those dear little souls, while passing through Berlin, I only then realized how much I loved them. It was very, very painful, getting that first little letter. How melancholy they had been when they saw me off! For a month before, they had been talking of my departure and sorrowing over it; and at the waterfall, of an evening, when we parted for the night, they would hug me so tight and kiss me so warmly, far more so than before. And every now and then they would turn up one by one when I was alone, just to give me a kiss and a hug, to show their love for me. The whole flock went with me to the station, which was about a mile from the village, and every now and then one of them would stop to throw his arms round me, and all the little girls had tears in their voices, though they tried hard not to cry. As the train steamed out of the station, I saw them all standing on the platform waving to me and crying 'Hurrah!' till they were lost in the distance. "I assure you, when I came in here just now and saw your kind faces (I can read faces well) my heart felt light for the first time since that moment of parting. I think I must be one of those who are born to be in luck, for one does not often meet with people whom one feels he can love from the first sight of their faces; and yet, no sooner do I step out of the railway carriage than I happen upon you! "I know it is more or less a shamefaced thing to speak of one's feelings before others; and yet here am I talking like this to you, and am not a bit ashamed or shy. I am an unsociable sort of fellow and shall very likely not come to see you again for some time; but don't think the worse of me for that. It is not that I do not value your society; and you must never suppose that I have taken offence at anything. "You asked me about your faces, and what I could read in them; I will tell you with the greatest pleasure. You, Adelaida Ivanovna, have a very happy face; it is the most sympathetic of the three. Not to speak of your natural beauty, one can look at your face and say to one's self, 'She has the face of a kind sister.' You are simple and merry, but you can see into another's heart very quickly. That's what I read in your face. "You too, Alexandra Ivanovna, have a very lovely face; but I think you may have some secret sorrow. Your heart is undoubtedly a kind, good one, but you are not merry. There is a certain suspicion of 'shadow' in your face, like in that of Holbein's Madonna in Dresden. So much for your face. Have I guessed right? "As for your face, Lizabetha Prokofievna, I not only think, but am perfectly SURE, that you are an absolute child--in all, in all, mind, both good and bad-and in spite of your years. Don't be angry with me for saying so; you know what my feelings for children are. And do not suppose that I am so candid out of pure simplicity of soul. Oh dear no, it is by no means the case! Perhaps I have my own very profound object in view." VII. When the prince ceased speaking all were gazing merrily at him-- even Aglaya; but Lizabetha Prokofievna looked the jolliest of all. "Well!" she cried, "we HAVE 'put him through his paces,' with a vengeance! My dears, you imagined, I believe, that you were about to patronize this young gentleman, like some poor protege picked up somewhere, and taken under your magnificent protection. What fools we were, and what a specially big fool is your father! Well done, prince! I assure you the general actually asked me to put you through your paces, and examine you. As to what you said about my face, you are absolutely correct in your judgment. I am a child, and know it. I knew it long before you said so; you have expressed my own thoughts. I think your nature and mine must be extremely alike, and I am very glad of it. We are like two drops of water, only you are a man and I a woman, and I've not been to Switzerland, and that is all the difference between us." "Don't be in a hurry, mother; the prince says that he has some motive behind his simplicity," cried Aglaya. "Yes, yes, so he does," laughed the others. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 46 "Oh, don't you begin bantering him," said mamma. "He is probably a good deal cleverer than all three of you girls put together. We shall see. Only you haven't told us anything about Aglaya yet, prince; and Aglaya and I are both waiting to hear." "I cannot say anything at present. I'll tell you afterwards." "Why? Her face is clear enough, isn't it?" "Oh yes, of course. You are very beautiful, Aglaya Ivanovna, so beautiful that one is afraid to look at you." "Is that all? What about her character?" persisted Mrs. Epanchin. "It is difficult to judge when such beauty is concerned. I have not prepared my judgment. Beauty is a riddle." "That means that you have set Aglaya a riddle!" said Adelaida. "Guess it, Aglaya! But she's pretty, prince, isn't she?" "Most wonderfully so," said the latter, warmly, gazing at Aglaya with admiration. "Almost as lovely as Nastasia Philipovna, but quite a different type." All present exchanged looks of surprise. "As lovely as WHO?" said Mrs. Epanchin. "As NASTASIA PHILIPOVNA? Where have you seen Nastasia Philipovna? What Nastasia Philipovna?" "Gavrila Ardalionovitch showed the general her portrait just now." "How so? Did he bring the portrait for my husband?" "Only to show it. Nastasia Philipovna gave it to Gavrila Ardalionovitch today, and the latter brought it here to show to the general." "I must see it!" cried Mrs. Epanchin. "Where is the portrait? If she gave it to him, he must have it; and he is still in the study. He never leaves before four o'clock on Wednesdays. Send for Gavrila Ardalionovitch at once. No, I don't long to see HIM so much. Look here, dear prince, BE so kind, will you? Just step to the study and fetch this portrait! Say we want to look at it. Please do this for me, will you?" "He is a nice fellow, but a little too simple," said Adelaida, as the prince left the room. "He is, indeed," said Alexandra; "almost laughably so at times." Neither one nor the other seemed to give expression to her full thoughts. "He got out of it very neatly about our faces, though," said Aglaya. He flattered us all round, even mamma." "Nonsense" cried the latter. "He did not flatter me. It was I who found his appreciation flattering. I think you are a great deal more foolish than he is. He is simple, of course, but also very knowing. Just like myself." "How stupid of me to speak of the portrait," thought the prince as he entered the study, with a feeling of guilt at his heart, "and yet, perhaps I was right after all." He had an idea, unformed as yet, but a strange idea. Gavrila Ardalionovitch was still sitting in the study, buried in a mass of papers. He looked as though he did by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 47 not take his salary from the public company, whose servant he was, for a sinecure. He grew very wroth and confused when the prince asked for the portrait, and explained how it came about that he had spoken of it. "Oh, curse it all," he said; "what on earth must you go blabbing for? You know nothing about the thing, and yet--idiot!" he added, muttering the last word to himself in irrepressible rage. "I am very sorry; I was not thinking at the time. I merely said that Aglaya was almost as beautiful as Nastasia Philipovna." Gania asked for further details; and the prince once more repeated the conversation. Gania looked at him with ironical contempt the while. "Nastasia Philipovna," he began, and there paused; he was clearly much agitated and annoyed. The prince reminded him of the portrait. "Listen, prince," said Gania, as though an idea had just struck him, "I wish to ask you a great favour, and yet I really don't know--" He paused again, he was trying to make up his mind to something, and was turning the matter over. The prince waited quietly. Once more Gania fixed him with intent and questioning eyes. "Prince," he began again, "they are rather angry with me, in there, owing to a circumstance which I need not explain, so that I do not care to go in at present without an invitation. I particularly wish to speak to Aglaya, but I have written a few words in case I shall not have the chance of seeing her" (here the prince observed a small note in his hand), "and I do not know how to get my communication to her. Don't you think you could undertake to give it to her at once, but only to her, mind, and so that no one else should see you give it? It isn't much of a secret, but still--Well, will you do it?" "I don't quite like it," replied the prince. "Oh, but it is absolutely necessary for me," Gania entreated. "Believe me, if it were not so, I would not ask you; how else am I to get it to her? It is most important, dreadfully important!" Gania was evidently much alarmed at the idea that the prince would not consent to take his note, and he looked at him now with an expression of absolute entreaty. "Well, I will take it then." "But mind, nobody is to see!" cried the delighted Gania "And of course I may rely on your word of honour, eh?" "I won't show it to anyone," said the prince. "The letter is not sealed--" continued Gania, and paused in confusion. "Oh, I won't read it," said the prince, quite simply. He took up the portrait, and went out of the room. Gania, left alone, clutched his head with his hands. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 48 "One word from her," he said, "one word from her, and I may yet be free." He could not settle himself to his papers again, for agitation and excitement, but began walking up and down the room from corner to corner. The prince walked along, musing. He did not like his commission, and disliked the idea of Gania sending a note to Aglaya at all; but when he was two rooms distant from the drawing-room, where they all were, he stopped a though recalling something; went to the window, nearer the light, and began to examine the portrait in his hand. He longed to solve the mystery of something in the face Nastasia Philipovna, something which had struck him as he looked at the portrait for the first time; the impression had not left him. It was partly the fact of her marvellous beauty that struck him, and partly something else. There was a suggestion of immense pride and disdain in the face almost of hatred, and at the same time something confiding and very full of simplicity. The contrast aroused a deep sympathy in his heart as he looked at the lovely face. The blinding loveliness of it was almost intolerable, this pale thin face with its flaming eyes; it was a strange beauty. The prince gazed at it for a minute or two, then glanced around him, and hurriedly raised the portrait to his lips. When, a minute after, he reached the drawing-room door, his face was quite composed. But just as he reached the door he met Aglaya coming out alone. "Gavrila Ardalionovitch begged me to give you this," he said, handing her the note. Aglaya stopped, took the letter, and gazed strangely into the prince's eyes. There was no confusion in her face; a little surprise, perhaps, but that was all. By her look she seemed merely to challenge the prince to an explanation as to how he and Gania happened to be connected in this matter. But her expression was perfectly cool and quiet, and even condescending. So they stood for a moment or two, confronting one another. At length a faint smile passed over her face, and she passed by him without a word. Mrs. Epanchin examined the portrait of Nastasia Philipovna for some little while, holding it critically at arm's length. "Yes, she is pretty," she said at last, "even very pretty. I have seen her twice, but only at a distance. So you admire this kind of beauty, do you?" she asked the prince, suddenly. "Yes, I do--this kind." "Do you mean especially this kind?" "Yes, especially this kind." "Why?" "There is much suffering in this face," murmured the prince, more as though talking to himself than answering the question. "I think you are wandering a little, prince," Mrs. Epanchin decided, after a lengthened survey of his face; and she tossed the portrait on to the table, haughtily. Alexandra took it, and Adelaida came up, and both the girls examined the photograph. Just then Aglaya by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 49 entered the room. "What a power!" cried Adelaida suddenly, as she earnestly examined the portrait over her sister's shoulder. "Whom? What power?" asked her mother, crossly. "Such beauty is real power," said Adelaida. "With such beauty as that one might overthrow the world." She returned to her easel thoughtfully. Aglaya merely glanced at the portrait--frowned, and put out her underlip; then went and sat down on the sofa with folded hands. Mrs. Epanchin rang the bell. "Ask Gavrila Ardalionovitch to step this way," said she to the man who answered. "Mamma!" cried Alexandra, significantly. "I shall just say two words to him, that's all," said her mother, silencing all objection by her manner; she was evidently seriously put out. "You see, prince, it is all secrets with us, just now--all secrets. It seems to be the etiquette of the house, for some reason or, other. Stupid nonsense, and in a matter which ought to be approached with all candour and open- heartedness. There is a marriage being talked of, and I don't like this marriage--" "Mamma, what are you saying?" said Alexandra again, hurriedly. "Well, what, my dear girl? As if you can possibly like it yourself? The heart is the great thing, and the rest is all rubbish--though one must have sense as well. Perhaps sense is really the great thing. Don't smile like that, Aglaya. I don't contradict myself. A fool with a heart and no brains is just as unhappy as a fool with brains and no heart. I am one and you are the other, and therefore both of us suffer, both of us are unhappy." "Why are you so unhappy, mother?" asked Adelaida, who alone of all the company seemed to have preserved her good temper and spirits up to now. "In the first place, because of my carefully brought-up daughters," said Mrs. Epanchin, cuttingly; "and as that is the best reason I can give you we need not bother about any other at present. Enough of words, now! We shall see how both of you (I don't count Aglaya) will manage your business, and whether you, most revered Alexandra Ivanovna, will be happy with your fine mate." "Ah!" she added, as Gania suddenly entered the room, "here's another marrying subject. How do you do?" she continued, in response to Gania's bow; but she did not invite him to sit down. "You are going to be married?" "Married? how--what marriage?" murmured Gania, overwhelmed with confusion. "Are you about to take a wife? I ask,--if you prefer that expression." "No, no I-I--no!" said Gania, bringing out his lie with a tell- tale blush of shame. He glanced keenly at Aglaya, who was sitting some way off, and dropped his eyes immediately. Aglaya gazed coldly, intently, and composedly at him, without taking her eyes off his face, and watched his confusion. "No? You say no, do you?" continued the pitiless Mrs. General. "Very well, I shall remember that you told me this Wednesday morning, in answer to my question, that you are not going to be married. What day is it, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 50 Wednesday, isn't it?" "Yes, I think so!" said Adelaida. "You never know the day of the week; what's the day of the month?" "Twenty-seventh!" said Gania. "Twenty-seventh; very well. Good-bye now; you have a good deal to do, I'm sure, and I must dress and go out. Take your portrait. Give my respects to your unfortunate mother, Nina Alexandrovna. Au revoir, dear prince, come in and see us often, do; and I shall tell old Princess Bielokonski about you. I shall go and see her on purpose. And listen, my dear boy, I feel sure that God has sent you to Petersburg from Switzerland on purpose for me. Maybe you will have other things to do, besides, but you are sent chiefly for my sake, I feel sure of it. God sent you to me! Au revoir! Alexandra, come with me, my dear." Mrs. Epanchin left the room. Gania--confused, annoyed, furious--took up his portrait, and turned to the prince with a nasty smile on his face. "Prince," he said, "I am just going home. If you have not changed your mind as to living with us, perhaps you would like to come with me. You don't know the address, I believe?" "Wait a minute, prince," said Aglaya, suddenly rising from her seat, "do write something in my album first, will you? Father says you are a most talented caligraphist; I'll bring you my book in a minute." She left the room. "Well, au revoir, prince," said Adelaida, "I must be going too." She pressed the prince's hand warmly, and gave him a friendly smile as she left the room. She did not so much as look at Gania. "This is your doing, prince," said Gania, turning on the latter so soon as the others were all out of the room. "This is your doing, sir! YOU have been telling them that I am going to be married!" He said this in a hurried whisper, his eyes flashing with rage and his face ablaze. "You shameless tattler!" "I assure you, you are under a delusion," said the prince, calmly and politely. "I did not even know that you were to be married." "You heard me talking about it, the general and me. You heard me say that everything was to be settled today at Nastasia Philipovna's, and you went and blurted it out here. You lie if you deny it. Who else could have told them Devil take it, sir, who could have told them except yourself? Didn't the old woman as good as hint as much to me?" "If she hinted to you who told her you must know best, of course; but I never said a word about it." "Did you give my note? Is there an answer?" interrupted Gania, impatiently. But at this moment Aglaya came back, and the prince had no time to reply. "There, prince," said she, "there's my album. Now choose a page and write me something, will you? There's a pen, a new one; do you mind a steel one? I have heard that you caligraphists don't like steel pens." Conversing with the prince, Aglaya did not even seem to notice that Gania was in the room. But while the by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 51 prince was getting his pen ready, finding a page, and making his preparations to write, Gania came up to the fireplace where Aglaya was standing, to the right of the prince, and in trembling, broken accents said, almost in her ear: "One word, just one word from you, and I'm saved." The prince turned sharply round and looked at both of them. Gania's face was full of real despair; he seemed to have said the words almost unconsciously and on the impulse of the moment. Aglaya gazed at him for some seconds with precisely the same composure and calm astonishment as she had shown a little while before, when the prince handed her the note, and it appeared that this calm surprise and seemingly absolute incomprehension of what was said to her, were more terribly overwhelming to Gania than even the most plainly expressed disdain would have been. "What shall I write?" asked the prince. "I'll dictate to you," said Aglaya, coming up to the table. "Now then, are you ready? Write, 'I never condescend to bargain!' Now put your name and the date. Let me see it." The prince handed her the album. "Capital! How beautifully you have written it! Thanks so much. Au revoir, prince. Wait a minute,"; she added, "I want to give you something for a keepsake. Come with me this way, will you?" The prince followed her. Arrived at the dining-room, she stopped. "Read this," she said, handing him Gania's note. The prince took it from her hand, but gazed at her in bewilderment. "Oh! I KNOW you haven't read it, and that you could never be that man's accomplice. Read it, I wish you to read it." The letter had evidently been written in a hurry: "My fate is to be decided today" (it ran), "you know how. This day I must give my word irrevocably. I have no right to ask your help, and I dare not allow myself to indulge in any hopes; but once you said just one word, and that word lighted up the night of my life, and became the beacon of my days. Say one more such word, and save me from utter ruin. Only tell me, 'break off the whole thing!' and I will do so this very day. Oh! what can it cost you to say just this one word? In doing so you will but be giving me a sign of your sympathy for me, and of your pity; only this, only this; nothing more, NOTHING. I dare not indulge in any hope, because I am unworthy of it. But if you say but this word, I will take up my cross again with joy, and return once more to my battle with poverty. I shall meet the storm and be glad of it; I shall rise up with renewed strength. "Send me back then this one word of sympathy, only sympathy, I swear to you; and oh! do not be angry with the audacity of despair, with the drowning man who has dared to make this last effort to save himself from perishing beneath the waters. "G.L." "This man assures me," said Aglaya, scornfully, when the prince had finished reading the letter, "that the by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 52 words 'break off everything' do not commit me to anything whatever; and himself gives me a written guarantee to that effect, in this letter. Observe how ingenuously he underlines certain words, and how crudely he glosses over his hidden thoughts. He must know that if he 'broke off everything,' FIRST, by himself, and without telling me a word about it or having the slightest hope on my account, that in that case I should perhaps be able to change my opinion of him, and even accept his--friendship. He must know that, but his soul is such a wretched thing. He knows it and cannot make up his mind; he knows it and yet asks for guarantees. He cannot bring himself to TRUST, he wants me to give him hopes of myself before he lets go of his hundred thousand roubles. As to the 'former word' which he declares 'lighted up the night of his life,' he is simply an impudent liar; I merely pitied him once. But he is audacious and shameless. He immediately began to hope, at that very moment. I saw it. He has tried to catch me ever since; he is still fishing for me. Well, enough of this. Take the letter and give it back to him, as soon as you have left our house; not before, of course." "And what shall I tell him by way of answer?" "Nothing--of course! That's the best answer. Is it the case that you are going to live in his house?" "Yes, your father kindly recommended me to him." "Then look out for him, I warn you! He won't forgive you easily, for taking back the letter." Aglaya pressed the prince's hand and left the room. Her face was serious and frowning; she did not even smile as she nodded good- bye to him at the door. "I'll just get my parcel and we'll go," said the prince to Gania, as he re-entered the drawing-room. Gania stamped his foot with impatience. His face looked dark and gloomy with rage. At last they left the house behind them, the prince carrying his bundle. "The answer--quick--the answer!" said Gania, the instant they were outside. "What did she say? Did you give the letter?" The prince silently held out the note. Gania was struck motionless with amazement. "How, what? my letter?" he cried. "He never delivered it! I might have guessed it, oh! curse him! Of course she did not understand what I meant, naturally! Why-why-WHY didn't you give her the note, you--" "Excuse me; I was able to deliver it almost immediately after receiving your commission, and I gave it, too, just as you asked me to. It has come into my hands now because Aglaya Ivanovna has just returned it to me." "How? When?" "As soon as I finished writing in her album for her, and when she asked me to come out of the room with her (you heard?), we went into the dining-room, and she gave me your letter to read, and then told me to return it." "To READ?" cried Gania, almost at the top of his voice; "to READ, and you read it?" And again he stood like a log in the middle of the pavement; so amazed that his mouth remained open after the last word had left it. "Yes, I have just read it." "And she gave it you to read herself--HERSELF?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 53 "Yes, herself; and you may believe me when I tell you that I would not have read it for anything without her permission." Gania was silent for a minute or two, as though thinking out some problem. Suddenly he cried: "It's impossible, she cannot have given it to you to read! You are lying. You read it yourself!" "I am telling you the truth," said the prince in his former composed tone of voice; "and believe me, I am extremely sorry that the circumstance should have made such an unpleasant impression upon you!" "But, you wretched man, at least she must have said something? There must be SOME answer from her!" "Yes, of course, she did say something!" "Out with it then, damn it! Out with it at once!" and Gania stamped his foot twice on the pavement. "As soon as I had finished reading it, she told me that you were fishing for her; that you wished to compromise her so far as to receive some hopes from her, trusting to which hopes you might break with the prospect of receiving a hundred thousand roubles. She said that if you had done this without bargaining with her, if you had broken with the money prospects without trying to force a guarantee out of her first, she might have been your friend. That's all, I think. Oh no, when I asked her what I was to say, as I took the letter, she replied that 'no answer is the best answer.' I think that was it. Forgive me if I do not use her exact expressions. I tell you the sense as I understood it myself." Ungovernable rage and madness took entire possession of Gania, and his fury burst out without the least attempt at restraint. "Oh! that's it, is it!" he yelled. "She throws my letters out of the window, does she! Oh! and she does not condescend to bargain, while I DO, eh? We shall see, we shall see! I shall pay her out for this." He twisted himself about with rage, and grew paler and paler; he shook his fist. So the pair walked along a few steps. Gania did not stand on ceremony with the prince; he behaved just as though he were alone in his room. He clearly counted the latter as a nonentity. But suddenly he seemed to have an idea, and recollected himself. "But how was it?" he asked, "how was it that you (idiot that you are)," he added to himself, "were so very confidential a couple of hours after your first meeting with these people? How was that, eh?" Up to this moment jealousy had not been one of his torments; now it suddenly gnawed at his heart. "That is a thing I cannot undertake to explain," replied the prince. Gania looked at him with angry contempt. "Oh! I suppose the present she wished to make to you, when she took you into the dining-room, was her confidence, eh?" "I suppose that was it; I cannot explain it otherwise?" "But why, WHY? Devil take it, what did you do in there? Why did they fancy you? Look here, can't you remember exactly what you said to them, from the very beginning? Can't you remember?" "Oh, we talked of a great many things. When first I went in we began to speak of Switzerland." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 54 "Oh, the devil take Switzerland!" "Then about executions." "Executions?" "Yes--at least about one. Then I told the whole three years' story of my life, and the history of a poor peasant girl--" "Oh, damn the peasant girl! go on, go on!" said Gania, impatiently. "Then how Schneider told me about my childish nature, and--" "Oh, CURSE Schneider and his dirty opinions! Go on." "Then I began to talk about faces, at least about the EXPRESSIONS of faces, and said that Aglaya Ivanovna was nearly as lovely as Nastasia Philipovna. It was then I blurted out about the portrait--" "But you didn't repeat what you heard in the study? You didn't repeat that--eh?" "No, I tell you I did NOT." "Then how did they--look here! Did Aglaya show my letter to the old lady?" "Oh, there I can give you my fullest assurance that she did NOT. I was there all the while--she had no time to do it!" "But perhaps you may not have observed it, oh, you damned idiot, you!" he shouted, quite beside himself with fury. "You can't even describe what went on." Gania having once descended to abuse, and receiving no check, very soon knew no bounds or limit to his licence, as is often the way in such cases. His rage so blinded him that he had not even been able to detect that this "idiot," whom he was abusing to such an extent, was very far from being slow of comprehension, and had a way of taking in an impression, and afterwards giving it out again, which was very un-idiotic indeed. But something a little unforeseen now occurred. "I think I ought to tell you, Gavrila Ardalionovitch," said the prince, suddenly, "that though I once was so ill that I really was little better than an idiot, yet now I am almost recovered, and that, therefore, it is not altogether pleasant to be called an idiot to my face. Of course your anger is excusable, considering the treatment you have just experienced; but I must remind you that you have twice abused me rather rudely. I do not like this sort of thing, and especially so at the first time of meeting a man, and, therefore, as we happen to be at this moment standing at a crossroad, don't you think we had better part, you to the left, homewards, and I to the right, here? I have twenty- five roubles, and I shall easily find a lodging." Gania was much confused, and blushed for shame "Do forgive me, prince!" he cried, suddenly changing his abusive tone for one of great courtesy. "For Heaven's sake, forgive me! You see what a miserable plight I am in, but you hardly know anything of the facts of the case as yet. If you did, I am sure you would forgive me, at least partially. Of course it was inexcusable of me, I know, but--" "Oh, dear me, I really do not require such profuse apologies," replied the prince, hastily. "I quite understand how unpleasant your position is, and that is what made you abuse me. So come along to your house, after all. I shall be delighted--" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 55 "I am not going to let him go like this," thought Gania, glancing angrily at the prince as they walked along. " The fellow has sucked everything out of me, and now he takes off his mask-- there's something more than appears, here we shall see. It shall all be as clear as water by tonight, everything!" But by this time they had reached Gania's house. VIII. The flat occupied by Gania and his family was on the third floor of the house. It was reached by a clean light staircase, and consisted of seven rooms, a nice enough lodging, and one would have thought a little too good for a clerk on two thousand roubles a year. But it was designed to accommodate a few lodgers on board terms, and had beer) taken a few months since, much to the disgust of Gania, at the urgent request of his mother and his sister, Varvara Ardalionovna, who longed to do something to increase the family income a little, and fixed their hopes upon letting lodgings. Gania frowned upon the idea. He thought it infra dig, and did not quite like appearing in society afterwards--that society in which he had been accustomed to pose up to now as a young man of rather brilliant prospects. All these concessions and rebuffs of fortune, of late, had wounded his spirit severely, and his temper had become extremely irritable, his wrath being generally quite out of proportion to the cause. But if he had made up his mind to put up with this sort of life for a while, it was only on the plain understanding with his inner self that he would very soon change it all, and have things as he chose again. Yet the very means by which he hoped to make this change threatened to involve him in even greater difficulties than he had had before. The flat was divided by a passage which led straight out of the entrance-hall. Along one side of this corridor lay the three rooms which were designed for the accommodation of the "highly recommended" lodgers. Besides these three rooms there was another small one at the end of the passage, close to the kitchen, which was allotted to General Ivolgin, the nominal master of the house, who slept on a wide sofa, and was obliged to pass into and out of his room through the kitchen, and up or down the back stairs. Colia, Gania's young brother, a school-boy of thirteen, shared this room with his father. He, too, had to sleep on an old sofa, a narrow, uncomfortable thing with a torn rug over it; his chief duty being to look after his father, who needed to be watched more and more every day. The prince was given the middle room of the three, the first being occupied by one Ferdishenko, while the third was empty. But Gania first conducted the prince to the family apartments. These consisted of a "salon," which became the dining-room when required; a drawing-room, which was only a drawing-room in the morning, and became Gania's study in the evening, and his bedroom at night; and lastly Nina Alexandrovna's and Varvara's bedroom, a small, close chamber which they shared together. In a word, the whole place was confined, and a "tight fit" for the party. Gania used to grind his teeth with rage over the state of affairs; though he was anxious to be dutiful and polite to his mother. However, it was very soon apparent to anyone coming into the house, that Gania was the tyrant of the family. Nina Alexandrovna and her daughter were both seated in the drawing-room, engaged in knitting, and talking to a visitor, Ivan Petrovitch Ptitsin. The lady of the house appeared to be a woman of about fifty years of age, thin-faced, and with black lines under the eves. She looked ill and rather sad; but her face was a pleasant one for all that; and from the first word that fell from her lips, any stranger would at once conclude that she was of a serious and particularly sincere nature. In spite of her sorrowful expression, she gave the idea of possessing considerable firmness and decision. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 56 Her dress was modest and simple to a degree, dark and elderly in style; but both her face and appearance gave evidence that she had seen better days. Varvara was a girl of some twenty-three summers, of middle height, thin, but possessing a face which, without being actually beautiful, had the rare quality of charm, and might fascinate even to the extent of passionate regard. She was very like her mother: she even dressed like her, which proved that she had no taste for smart clothes. The expression of her grey eyes was merry and gentle, when it was not, as lately, too full of thought and anxiety. The same decision and firmness was to be observed in her face as in her mother's, but her strength seemed to be more vigorous than that of Nina Alexandrovna. She was subject to outbursts of temper, of which even her brother was a little afraid. The present visitor, Ptitsin, was also afraid of her. This was a young fellow of something under thirty, dressed plainly, but neatly. His manners were good, but rather ponderously so. His dark beard bore evidence to the fact that he was not in any government employ. He could speak well, but preferred silence. On the whole he made a decidedly agreeable impression. He was clearly attracted by Varvara, and made no secret of his feelings. She trusted him in a friendly way, but had not shown him any decided encouragement as yet, which fact did not quell his ardour in the least. Nina Alexandrovna was very fond of him, and had grown quite confidential with him of late. Ptitsin, as was well known, was engaged in the business of lending out money on good security, and at a good rate of interest. He was a great friend of Gania's. After a formal introduction by Gania (who greeted his mother very shortly, took no notice of his sister, and immediately marched Ptitsin out of the room), Nina Alexandrovna addressed a few kind words to the prince and forthwith requested Colia, who had just appeared at the door, to show him to the " middle room." Colia was a nice-looking boy. His expression was simple and confiding, and his manners were very polite and engaging. "Where's your luggage?" he asked, as he led the prince away to his room. "I had a bundle; it's in the entrance hall." "I'll bring it you directly. We only have a cook and one maid, so I have to help as much as I can. Varia looks after things, generally, and loses her temper over it. Gania says you have only just arrived from Switzerland? " "Yes." "Is it jolly there?" "Very." "Mountains?" "Yes." "I'll go and get your bundle." Here Varvara joined them. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 57 "The maid shall bring your bed-linen directly. Have you a portmanteau?" "No; a bundle--your brother has just gone to the hall for it." "There's nothing there except this," said Colia, returning at this moment. "Where did you put it?" "Oh! but that's all I have," said the prince, taking it. "Ah! I thought perhaps Ferdishenko had taken it." "Don't talk nonsense," said Varia, severely. She seemed put out, and was only just polite with the prince. "Oho!" laughed the boy, "you can be nicer than that to ME, you know--I'm not Ptitsin!" "You ought to be whipped, Colia, you silly boy. If you want anything" (to the prince) "please apply to the servant. We dine at half-past four. You can take your dinner with us, or have it in your room, just as you please. Come along, Colia, don't disturb the prince." At the door they met Gania coming in. "Is father in?" he asked. Colia whispered something in his ear and went out. "Just a couple of words, prince, if you'll excuse me. Don't blab over THERE about what you may see here, or in this house as to all that about Aglaya and me, you know. Things are not altogether pleasant in this establishment--devil take it all! You'll see. At all events keep your tongue to yourself for TODAY." "I assure you I 'blabbed' a great deal less than you seem to suppose," said the prince, with some annoyance. Clearly the relations between Gania and himself were by no means improving. "Oh I well; I caught it quite hot enough today, thanks to you. However, I forgive you." "I think you might fairly remember that I was not in any way bound, I had no reason to be silent about that portrait. You never asked me not to mention it." "Pfu! what a wretched room this is--dark, and the window looking into the yard. Your coming to our house is, in no respect, opportune. However, it's not MY affair. I don't keep the lodgings." Ptitsin here looked in and beckoned to Gania, who hastily left the room, in spite of the fact that he had evidently wished to say something more and had only made the remark about the room to gain time. The prince had hardly had time to wash and tidy himself a little when the door opened once more, and another figure appeared. This was a gentleman of about thirty, tall, broadshouldered, and red-haired; his face was red, too, and he possessed a pair of thick lips, a wide nose, small eyes, rather bloodshot, and with an ironical expression in them; as though he were perpetually winking at someone. His whole appearance gave one the idea of impudence; his dress was shabby. He opened the door just enough to let his head in. His head remained so placed for a few seconds while he quietly scrutinized the room; the door then opened enough to admit his body; but still he did not enter. He stood on the threshold and examined the prince carefully. At last he gave the door a final shove, entered, approached the prince, took his hand and seated himself and the owner of the room on two chairs side by side. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 58 "Ferdishenko," he said, gazing intently and inquiringly into the prince's eyes. "Very well, what next?" said the latter, almost laughing in his face. "A lodger here," continued the other, staring as before. "Do you wish to make acquaintance?" asked the prince. "Ah!" said the visitor, passing his fingers through his hair and sighing. He then looked over to the other side of the room and around it. "Got any money?" he asked, suddenly. "Not much." "How much?" "Twenty-five roubles." "Let's see it." The prince took his banknote out and showed it to Ferdishenko. The latter unfolded it and looked at it; then he turned it round and examined the other side; then he held it up to the light. "How strange that it should have browned so," he said, reflectively. "These twenty-five rouble notes brown in a most extraordinary way, while other notes often grow paler. Take it." The prince took his note. Ferdishenko rose. "I came here to warn you," he said. "In the first place, don't lend me any money, for I shall certainly ask you to." "Very well." "Shall you pay here?" "Yes, I intend to." "Oh! I DON'T intend to. Thanks. I live here, next door to you; you noticed a room, did you? Don't come to me very often; I shall see you here quite often enough. Have you seen the general?" "No." "Nor heard him?" "No; of course not." "Well, you'll both hear and see him soon; he even tries to borrow money from me. Avis au lecteur. Good-bye; do you think a man can possibly live with a name like Ferdishenko?" "Why not?" "Good-bye." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 59 And so he departed. The prince found out afterwards that this gentleman made it his business to amaze people with his originality and wit, but that it did not as a rule "come off." He even produced a bad impression on some people, which grieved him sorely; but he did not change his ways for all that. As he went out of the prince's room, he collided with yet another visitor coming in. Ferdishenko took the opportunity of making several warning gestures to the prince from behind the new arrival's back, and left the room in conscious pride. This next arrival was a tall red-faced man of about fifty-five, with greyish hair and whiskers, and large eyes which stood out of their sockets. His appearance would have been distinguished had it not been that he gave the idea of being rather dirty. He was dressed in an old coat, and he smelled of vodka when he came near. His walk was effective, and he clearly did his best to appear dignified, and to impress people by his manner. This gentleman now approached the prince slowly, and with a most courteous smile; silently took his hand and held it in his own, as he examined the prince's features as though searching for familiar traits therein. "'Tis he, 'tis he!" he said at last, quietly, but with much solemnity. "As though he were alive once more. I heard the familiar name-the dear familiar name--and, oh. I how it reminded me of the irrevocable past--Prince Muishkin, I believe ?" "Exactly so." "General Ivolgin--retired and unfortunate. May I ask your Christian and generic names?" "Lef Nicolaievitch." "So, so--the son of my old, I may say my childhood's friend, Nicolai Petrovitch." "My father's name was Nicolai Lvovitch." "Lvovitch," repeated the general without the slightest haste, and with perfect confidence, just as though he had not committed himself the least in the world, but merely made a little slip of the tongue. He sat down, and taking the prince's hand, drew him to a seat next to himself. "I carried you in my arms as a baby," he observed. "Really?" asked the prince. "Why, it's twenty years since my father died." "Yes, yes--twenty years and three months. We were educated together; I went straight into the army, and he--" "My father went into the army, too. He was a sub-lieutenant in the Vasiliefsky regiment." "No, sir--in the Bielomirsky; he changed into the latter shortly before his death. I was at his bedside when he died, and gave him my blessing for eternity. Your mother--" The general paused, as though overcome with emotion. "She died a few months later, from a cold," said the prince. "Oh, not cold--believe an old man--not from a cold, but from grief for her prince. Oh--your mother, your mother! heigh-ho! Youth--youth! Your father and I--old friends as we were--nearly murdered each other for her sake." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 60 The prince began to be a little incredulous. "I was passionately in love with her when she was engaged-- engaged to my friend. The prince noticed the fact and was furious. He came and woke me at seven o'clock one morning. I rise and dress in amazement; silence on both sides. I understand it all. He takes a couple of pistols out of his pocket--across a handkerchief--without witnesses. Why invite witnesses when both of us would be walking in eternity in a couple of minutes? The pistols are loaded; we stretch the handkerchief and stand opposite one another. We aim the pistols at each other's hearts. Suddenly tears start to our eyes, our hands shake; we weep, we embrace--the battle is one of self-sacrifice now! The prince shouts, 'She is yours;' I cry, 'She is yours--' in a word, in a word--You've come to live with us, hey?" "Yes--yes--for a while, I think," stammered the prince. "Prince, mother begs you to come to her," said Colia, appearing at the door. The prince rose to go, but the general once more laid his hand in a friendly manner on his shoulder, and dragged him down on to the sofa. "As the true friend of your father, I wish to say a few words to you," he began. "I have suffered--there was a catastrophe. I suffered without a trial; I had no trial. Nina Alexandrovna my wife, is an excellent woman, so is my daughter Varvara. We have to let lodgings because we are poor--a dreadful, unheard-of come- down for us--for me, who should have been a governor-general; but we are very glad to have YOU, at all events. Meanwhile there is a tragedy in the house." The prince looked inquiringly at the other. "Yes, a marriage is being arranged--a marriage between a questionable woman and a young fellow who might be a flunkey. They wish to bring this woman into the house where my wife and daughter reside, but while I live and breathe she shall never enter my doors. I shall lie at the threshold, and she shall trample me underfoot if she does. I hardly talk to Gania now, and avoid him as much as I can. I warn you of this beforehand, but you cannot fail to observe it. But you are the son of my old friend, and I hope--" "Prince, be so kind as to come to me for a moment in the drawing- room," said Nina Alexandrovna herself, appearing at the door. "Imagine, my dear," cried the general, "it turns out that I have nursed the prince on my knee in the old days." His wife looked searchingly at him, and glanced at the prince, but said nothing. The prince rose and followed her; but hardly had they reached the drawing-room, and Nina Alexandrovna had begun to talk hurriedly, when in came the general. She immediately relapsed into silence. The master of the house may have observed this, but at all events he did not take any notice of it; he was in high good humour. "A son of my old friend, dear," he cried; "surely you must remember Prince Nicolai Lvovitch? You saw him at--at Tver." "I don't remember any Nicolai Lvovitch, Was that your father?" she inquired of the prince. "Yes, but he died at Elizabethgrad, not at Tver," said the prince, rather timidly. "So Pavlicheff told me." "No, Tver," insisted the general; "he removed just before his death. You were very small and cannot remember; and Pavlicheff, though an excellent fellow, may have made a mistake." "You knew Pavlicheff then?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 61 "Oh, yes--a wonderful fellow; but I was present myself. I gave him my blessing." "My father was just about to be tried when he died," said the prince, "although I never knew of what he was accused. He died in hospital." "Oh! it was the Kolpakoff business, and of course he would have been acquitted." "Yes? Do you know that for a fact?" asked the prince, whose curiosity was aroused by the general's words. "I should think so indeed!" cried the latter. "The court-martial came to no decision. It was a mysterious, an impossible business, one might say! Captain Larionoff, commander of the company, had died; his command was handed over to the prince for the moment. Very well. This soldier, Kolpakoff, stole some leather from one of his comrades, intending to sell it, and spent the money on drink. Well! The prince--you understand that what follows took place in the presence of the sergeant-major, and a corporal--the prince rated Kolpakoff soundly, and threatened to have him flogged. Well, Kolpakoff went back to the barracks, lay down on a camp bedstead, and in a quarter of an hour was dead: you quite understand? It was, as I said, a strange, almost impossible, affair. In due course Kolpakoff was buried; the prince wrote his report, the deceased's name was removed from the roll. All as it should be, is it not? But exactly three months later at the inspection of the brigade, the man Kolpakoff was found in the third company of the second battalion of infantry, Novozemlianski division, just as if nothing had happened!" "What?" said the prince, much astonished. "It did not occur--it's a mistake!" said Nina Alexandrovna quickly, looking, at the prince rather anxiously. "Mon mari se trompe," she added, speaking in French. "My dear, 'se trompe' is easily said. Do you remember any case at all like it? Everybody was at their wits' end. I should be the first to say 'qu'on se trompe,' but unfortunately I was an eye- witness, and was also on the commission of inquiry. Everything proved that it was really he, the very same soldier Kolpakoff who had been given the usual military funeral to the sound of the drum. It is of course a most curious case--nearly an impossible one. I recognize that ... but--" "Father, your dinner is ready," said Varvara at this point, putting her head in at the door. "Very glad, I'm particularly hungry. Yes, yes, a strange coincidence--almost a psychological--" "Your soup'll be cold; do come." "Coming, coming " said the general. "Son of my old friend--" he was heard muttering as he went down the passage. "You will have to excuse very much in my husband, if you stay with us," said Nina Alexandrovna; "but he will not disturb you often. He dines alone. Everyone has his little peculiarities, you know, and some people perhaps have more than those who are most pointed at and laughed at. One thing I must beg of you-if my husband applies to you for payment for board and lodging, tell him that you have already paid me. Of course anything paid by you to the general would be as fully settled as if paid to me, so far as you are concerned; but I wish it to be so, if you please, for convenience' sake. What is it, Varia?" Varia had quietly entered the room, and was holding out the portrait of Nastasia Philipovna to her mother. Nina Alexandrovna started, and examined the photograph intently, gazing at it long and sadly. At last she looked up inquiringly at Varia. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 62 "It's a present from herself to him," said Varia; "the question is to be finally decided this evening." "This evening!" repeated her mother in a tone of despair, but softly, as though to herself. "Then it's all settled, of course, and there's no hope left to us. She has anticipated her answer by the present of her portrait. Did he show it you himself?" she added, in some surprise. "You know we have hardly spoken to each other for a whole month. Ptitsin told me all about it; and the photo was lying under the table, and I picked it up." "Prince," asked Nina Alexandrovna, "I wanted to inquire whether you have known my son long? I think he said that you had only arrived today from somewhere." The prince gave a short narrative of what we have heard before, leaving out the greater part. The two ladies listened intently. "I did not ask about Gania out of curiosity," said the elder, at last. "I wish to know how much you know about him, because he said just now that we need not stand on ceremony with you. What, exactly, does that mean?" At this moment Gania and Ptitsin entered the room together, and Nina Alexandrovna immediately became silent again. The prince remained seated next to her, but Varia moved to the other end of the room; the portrait of Nastasia Philipovna remained lying as before on the work-table. Gania observed it there, and with a frown of annoyance snatched it up and threw it across to his writing-table, which stood at the other end of the room. "Is it today, Gania?" asked Nina Alexandrovna, at last. "Is what today?" cried the former. Then suddenly recollecting himself, he turned sharply on the prince. "Oh," he growled, "I see, you are here, that explains it! Is it a disease, or what, that you can't hold your tongue? Look here, understand once for all, prince--" "I am to blame in this, Gania--no one else," said Ptitsin. Gania glanced inquiringly at the speaker. "It's better so, you know, Gania--especially as, from one point of view, the matter may be considered as settled," said Ptitsin; and sitting down a little way from the table he began to study a paper covered with pencil writing. Gania stood and frowned, he expected a family scene. He never thought of apologizing to the prince, however. "If it's all settled, Gania, then of course Mr. Ptitsin is right," said Nina Alexandrovna. "Don't frown. You need not worry yourself, Gania; I shall ask you no questions. You need not tell me anything you don't like. I assure you I have quite submitted to your will." She said all this, knitting away the while as though perfectly calm and composed. Gania was surprised, but cautiously kept silence and looked at his mother, hoping that she would express herself more clearly. Nina Alexandrovna observed his cautiousness and added, with a bitter smile: "You are still suspicious, I see, and do not believe me; but you may be quite at your ease. There shall be no more tears, nor questions--not from my side, at all events. All I wish is that you may be happy, you know that. I have submitted to my fate; but my heart will always be with you, whether we remain united, or whether we part. Of course I only answer for myself--you can hardly expect your sister--" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 63 "My sister again," cried Gania, looking at her with contempt and almost hate. "Look here, mother, I have already given you my word that I shall always respect you fully and absolutely, and so shall everyone else in this house, be it who it may, who shall cross this threshold." Gania was so much relieved that he gazed at his mother almost affectionately. "I was not at all afraid for myself, Gania, as you know well. It was not for my own sake that I have been so anxious and worried all this time! They say it is all to be settled to-day. What is to be settled?" "She has promised to tell me tonight at her own house whether she consents or not," replied Gania. "We have been silent on this subject for three weeks," said his mother, "and it was better so; and now I will only ask you one question. How can she give her consent and make you a present of her portrait when you do not love her? How can such a--such a--" "Practised hand--eh?" "I was not going to express myself so. But how could you so blind her?" Nina Alexandrovna's question betrayed intense annoyance. Gania waited a moment and then said, without taking the trouble to conceal the irony of his tone: "There you are, mother, you are always like that. You begin by promising that there are to be no reproaches or insinuations or questions, and here you are beginning them at once. We had better drop the subject--we had, really. I shall never leave you, mother; any other man would cut and run from such a sister as this. See how she is looking at me at this moment! Besides, how do you know that I am blinding Nastasia Philipovna? As for Varia, I don't care--she can do just as she pleases. There, that's quite enough!" Gania's irritation increased with every word he uttered, as he walked up and down the room. These conversations always touched the family sores before long. "I have said already that the moment she comes in I go out, and I shall keep my word," remarked Varia. "Out of obstinacy" shouted Gania. "You haven't married, either, thanks to your obstinacy. Oh, you needn't frown at me, Varvara! You can go at once for all I care; I am sick enough of your company. What, you are going to leave us are you, too?" he cried, turning to the prince, who was rising from his chair. Gania's voice was full of the most uncontrolled and uncontrollable irritation. The prince turned at the door to say something, but perceiving in Gania's expression that there was but that one drop wanting to make the cup overflow, he changed his mind and left the room without a word. A few minutes later he was aware from the noisy voices in the drawing room, that the conversation had become more quarrelsome than ever after his departure. He crossed the salon and the entrance-hall, so as to pass down the corridor into his own room. As he came near the front door he heard someone outside vainly endeavouring to ring the bell, which was evidently broken, and only shook a little, without emitting any sound. The prince took down the chain and opened the door. He started back in amazement--for there stood Nastasia Philipovna. He knew her at once from her photograph. Her eyes blazed with anger as she looked at him. She quickly pushed by him into the hall, shouldering him out of her way, and said, furiously, as she threw off her fur cloak: by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 64 "If you are too lazy to mend your bell, you should at least wait in the hall to let people in when they rattle the bell handle. There, now, you've dropped my fur cloak--dummy!" Sure enough the cloak was lying on the ground. Nastasia had thrown it off her towards the prince, expecting him to catch it, but the prince had missed it. "Now then--announce me, quick!" The prince wanted to say something, but was so confused and astonished that he could not. However, he moved off towards the drawing-room with the cloak over his arm. "Now then, where are you taking my cloak to? Ha, ha, ha! Are you mad?" The prince turned and came back, more confused than ever. When she burst out laughing, he smiled, but his tongue could not form a word as yet. At first, when he had opened the door and saw her standing before him, he had become as pale as death; but now the red blood had rushed back to his cheeks in a torrent. "Why, what an idiot it is!" cried Nastasia, stamping her foot with irritation. "Go on, do! Whom are you going to announce?" "Nastasia Philipovna," murmured the prince. "And how do you know that?" she asked him, sharply. "I have never seen you before!" "Go on, announce me--what's that noise?" "They are quarrelling," said the prince, and entered the drawing- room, just as matters in there had almost reached a crisis. Nina Alexandrovna had forgotten that she had "submitted to everything!" She was defending Varia. Ptitsin was taking her part, too. Not that Varia was afraid of standing up for herself. She was by no means that sort of a girl; but her brother was becoming ruder and more intolerable every moment. Her usual practice in such cases as the present was to say nothing, but stare at him, without taking her eyes off his face for an instant. This manoeuvre, as she well knew, could drive Gania distracted. Just at this moment the door opened and the prince entered, announcing: "Nastasia Philipovna!" IX. Silence immediately fell on the room; all looked at the prince as though they neither understood, nor hoped to understand. Gania was motionless with horror. Nastasia's arrival was a most unexpected and overwhelming event to all parties. In the first place, she had never been before. Up to now she had been so haughty that she had never even asked Gania to introduce her to his parents. Of late she had not so much as mentioned them. Gania was partly glad of this; but still he had put it to her debit in the account to be settled after marriage. He would have borne anything from her rather than this visit. But one thing seemed to him quite clear-her visit now, and the present of her portrait on this particular day, pointed out plainly enough which way she intended to make her decision! by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 65 The incredulous amazement with which all regarded the prince did not last long, for Nastasia herself appeared at the door and passed in, pushing by the prince again. "At last I've stormed the citadel! Why do you tie up your bell?" she said, merrily, as she pressed Gania's hand, the latter having rushed up to her as soon as she made her appearance. "What are you looking so upset about? Introduce me, please!" The bewildered Gania introduced her first to Varia, and both women, before shaking hands, exchanged looks of strange import. Nastasia, however, smiled amiably; but Varia did not try to look amiable, and kept her gloomy expression. She did not even vouchsafe the usual courteous smile of etiquette. Gania darted a terrible glance of wrath at her for this, but Nina Alexandrovna, mended matters a little when Gania introduced her at last. Hardly, however, had the old lady begun about her " highly gratified feelings," and so on, when Nastasia left her, and flounced into a chair by Gania's side in the corner by the window, and cried: "Where's your study? and where are the--the lodgers? You do take in lodgers, don't you?" Gania looked dreadfully put out, and tried to say something in reply, but Nastasia interrupted him: "Why, where are you going to squeeze lodgers in here? Don't you use a study? Does this sort of thing pay?" she added, turning to Nina Alexandrovna. "Well, it is troublesome, rather," said the latter; "but I suppose it will 'pay' pretty well. We have only just begun, however--" Again Nastasia Philipovna did not hear the sentence out. She glanced at Gania, and cried, laughing, "What a face! My goodness, what a face you have on at this moment!" Indeed, Gania did not look in the least like himself. His bewilderment and his alarmed perplexity passed off, however, and his lips now twitched with rage as he continued to stare evilly at his laughing guest, while his countenance became absolutely livid. There was another witness, who, though standing at the door motionless and bewildered himself, still managed to remark Gania's death-like pallor, and the dreadful change that had come over his face. This witness was the prince, who now advanced in alarm and muttered to Gania: "Drink some water, and don't look like that!" It was clear that he came out with these words quite spontaneously, on the spur of the moment. But his speech was productive of much--for it appeared that all. Gania's rage now overflowed upon the prince. He seized him by the shoulder and gazed with an intensity of loathing and revenge at him, but said nothing--as though his feelings were too strong to permit of words. General agitation prevailed. Nina Alexandrovna gave a little cry of anxiety; Ptitsin took a step forward in alarm; Colia and Ferdishenko stood stock still at the door in amazement;--only Varia remained coolly watching the scene from under her eyelashes. She did not sit down, but stood by her mother with folded hands. However, Gania recollected himself almost immediately. He let go of the prince and burst out laughing. "Why, are you a doctor, prince, or what?" he asked, as naturally as possible. "I declare you quite frightened me! Nastasia Philipovna, let me introduce this interesting character to you-- though I have only known him myself since the morning." Nastasia gazed at the prince in bewilderment. "Prince? He a Prince? Why, I took him for the footman, just by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 66 now, and sent him in to announce me! Ha, ha, ha, isn't that good!" "Not bad that, not bad at all!" put in Ferdishenko, "se non e vero--" "I rather think I pitched into you, too, didn't I? Forgive me--do! Who is he, did you say? What prince? Muishkin?" she added, addressing Gania. "He is a lodger of ours," explained the latter. "An idiot!"--the prince distinctly heard the word half whispered from behind him. This was Ferdishenko's voluntary information for Nastasia's benefit. "Tell me, why didn't you put me right when I made such a dreadful mistake just now?" continued the latter, examining the prince from head to foot without the slightest ceremony. She awaited the answer as though convinced that it would be so foolish that she must inevitably fail to restrain her laughter over it. "I was astonished, seeing you so suddenly--" murmured the prince. "How did you know who I was? Where had you seen me before? And why were you so struck dumb at the sight of me? What was there so overwhelming about me?" "Oho! ho, ho, ho!" cried Ferdishenko. "NOW then, prince! My word, what things I would say if I had such a chance as that! My goodness, prince--go on!" "So should I, in your place, I've no doubt!" laughed the prince to Ferdishenko; then continued, addressing Nastasia: "Your portrait struck me very forcibly this morning; then I was talking about you to the Epanchins; and then, in the train, before I reached Petersburg, Parfen Rogojin told me a good deal about you; and at the very moment that I opened the door to you I happened to be thinking of you, when--there you stood before me!" "And how did you recognize me?" "From the portrait!" "What else?" "I seemed to imagine you exactly as you are--I seemed to have seen you somewhere." "Where--where?" "I seem to have seen your eyes somewhere; but it cannot be! I have not seen you--I never was here before. I may have dreamed of you, I don't know." The prince said all this with manifest effort--in broken sentences, and with many drawings of breath. He was evidently much agitated. Nastasia Philipovna looked at him inquisitively, but did not laugh. "Bravo, prince!" cried Ferdishenko, delighted. At this moment a loud voice from behind the group which hedged in the prince and Nastasia Philipovna, divided the crowd, as it were, and before them stood the head of the family, General Ivolgin. He was dressed in evening clothes; his moustache was dyed. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 67 This apparition was too much for Gania. Vain and ambitious almost to morbidness, he had had much to put up with in the last two months, and was seeking feverishly for some means of enabling himself to lead a more presentable kind of existence. At home, he now adopted an attitude of absolute cynicism, but he could not keep this up before Nastasia Philipovna, although he had sworn to make her pay after marriage for all he suffered now. He was experiencing a last humiliation, the bitterest of all, at this moment--the humiliation of blushing for his own kindred in his own house. A question flashed through his mind as to whether the game was really worth the candle. For that had happened at this moment, which for two months had been his nightmare; which had filled his soul with dread and shame--the meeting between his father and Nastasia Philipovna. He had often tried to imagine such an event, but had found the picture too mortifying and exasperating, and had quietly dropped it. Very likely he anticipated far worse things than was at all necessary; it is often so with vain persons. He had long since determined, therefore, to get his father out of the way, anywhere, before his marriage, in order to avoid such a meeting; but when Nastasia entered the room just now, he had been so overwhelmed with astonishment, that he had not thought of his father, and had made no arrangements to keep him out of the way. And now it was too late--there he was, and got up, too, in a dress coat and white tie, and Nastasia in the very humour to heap ridicule on him and his family circle; of this last fact, he felt quite persuaded. What else had she come for? There were his mother and his sister sitting before her, and she seemed to have forgotten their very existence already; and if she behaved like that, he thought, she must have some object in view. Ferdishenko led the general up to Nastasia Philipovna. "Ardalion Alexandrovitch Ivolgin," said the smiling general, with a low bow of great dignity, "an old soldier, unfortunate, and the father of this family; but happy in the hope of including in that family so exquisite--" He did not finish his sentence, for at this moment Ferdishenko pushed a chair up from behind, and the general, not very firm on his legs, at this post-prandial hour, flopped into it backwards. It was always a difficult thing to put this warrior to confusion, and his sudden descent left him as composed as before. He had sat down just opposite to Nastasia, whose fingers he now took, and raised to his lips with great elegance, and much courtesy. The general had once belonged to a very select circle of society, but he had been turned out of it two or three years since on account of certain weaknesses, in which he now indulged with all the less restraint; but his good manners remained with him to this day, in spite of all. Nastasia Philipovna seemed delighted at the appearance of this latest arrival, of whom she had of course heard a good deal by report. "I have heard that my son--" began Ardalion Alexandrovitch. "Your son, indeed! A nice papa you are! YOU might have come to see me anyhow, without compromising anyone. Do you hide yourself, or does your son hide you?" "The children of the nineteenth century, and their parents--" began the general, again. "Nastasia Philipovna, will you excuse the general for a moment? Someone is inquiring for him," said Nina Alexandrovna in a loud voice, interrupting the conversation. "Excuse him? Oh no, I have wished to see him too long for that. Why, what business can he have? He has retired, hasn't he? You won't leave me, general, will you?" "I give you my word that he shall come and see you--but he--he needs rest just now." "General, they say you require rest," said Nastasia Philipovna, with the melancholy face of a child whose toy by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 68 is taken away. Ardalion Alexandrovitch immediately did his best to make his foolish position a great deal worse. "My dear, my dear!" he said, solemnly and reproachfully, looking at his wife, with one hand on his heart. "Won't you leave the room, mamma?" asked Varia, aloud. "No, Varia, I shall sit it out to the end." Nastasia must have overheard both question and reply, but her vivacity was not in the least damped. On the contrary, it seemed to increase. She immediately overwhelmed the general once more with questions, and within five minutes that gentleman was as happy as a king, and holding forth at the top of his voice, amid the laughter of almost all who heard him. Colia jogged the prince's arm. "Can't YOU get him out of the room, somehow? DO, please," and tears of annoyance stood in the boy's eyes. "Curse that Gania!" he muttered, between his teeth. "Oh yes, I knew General Epanchin well," General Ivolgin was saying at this moment; "he and Prince Nicolai Ivanovitch Muishkin--whose son I have this day embraced after an absence of twenty years--and I, were three inseparables. Alas one is in the grave, torn to pieces by calumnies and bullets; another is now before you, still battling with calumnies and bullets--" "Bullets?" cried Nastasia. "Yes, here in my chest. I received them at the siege of Kars, and I feel them in bad weather now. And as to the third of our trio, Epanchin, of course after that little affair with the poodle in the railway carriage, it was all UP between us." "Poodle? What was that? And in a railway carriage? Dear me," said Nastasia, thoughtfully, as though trying to recall something to mind. "Oh, just a silly, little occurrence, really not worth telling, about Princess Bielokonski's governess, Miss Smith, and--oh, it is really not worth telling!" "No, no, we must have it!" cried Nastasia merrily. "Yes, of course," said Ferdishenko. "C'est du nouveau." "Ardalion," said Nina Alexandrovitch, entreatingly. "Papa, you are wanted!" cried Colia. "Well, it is a silly little story, in a few words," began the delighted general. "A couple of years ago, soon after the new railway was opened, I had to go somewhere or other on business. Well, I took a first-class ticket, sat down, and began to smoke, or rather CONTINUED to smoke, for I had lighted up before. I was alone in the carriage. Smoking is not allowed, but is not prohibited either; it is half allowed--so to speak, winked at. I had the window open." "Suddenly, just before the whistle, in came two ladies with a little poodle, and sat down opposite to me; not by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 69 bad-looking women; one was in light blue, the other in black silk. The poodle, a beauty with a silver collar, lay on light blue's knee. They looked haughtily about, and talked English together. I took no notice, just went on smoking. I observed that the ladies were getting angry--over my cigar, doubtless. One looked at me through her tortoise-shell eyeglass. "I took no notice, because they never said a word. If they didn't like the cigar, why couldn't they say so? Not a word, not a hint! Suddenly, and without the very slightest suspicion of warning, 'light blue' seizes my cigar from between my fingers, and, wheugh! out of the window with it! Well, on flew the train, and I sat bewildered, and the young woman, tall and fair, and rather red in the face, too red, glared at me with flashing eyes. "I didn't say a word, but with extreme courtesy, I may say with most refined courtesy, I reached my finger and thumb over towards the poodle, took it up delicately by the nape of the neck, and chucked it out of the window, after the cigar. The train went flying on, and the poodle's yells were lost in the distance." "Oh, you naughty man!" cried Nastasia, laughing and clapping her hands like a child. "Bravo!" said Ferdishenko. Ptitsin laughed too, though he had been very sorry to see the general appear. Even Colia laughed and said, "Bravo!" "And I was right, truly right," cried the general, with warmth and solemnity, "for if cigars are forbidden in railway carriages, poodles are much more so." "Well, and what did the lady do?" asked Nastasia, impatiently. " She--ah, that's where all the mischief of it lies!" replied Ivolgin, frowning. "Without a word, as it were, of warning, she slapped me on the cheek! An extraordinary woman!" "And you?" The general dropped his eyes, and elevated his brows; shrugged his shoulders, tightened his lips, spread his hands, and remained silent. At last he blurted out: "I lost my head!" "Did you hit her?" "No, oh no!--there was a great flare-up, but I didn't hit her! I had to struggle a little, purely to defend myself; but the very devil was in the business. It turned out that 'light blue' was an Englishwoman, governess or something, at Princess Bielokonski's, and the other woman was one of the old-maid princesses Bielokonski. Well, everybody knows what great friends the princess and Mrs. Epanchin are, so there was a pretty kettle of fish. All the Bielokonskis went into mourning for the poodle. Six princesses in tears, and the Englishwoman shrieking! "Of course I wrote an apology, and called, but they would not receive either me or my apology, and the Epanchins cut me, too!" "But wait," said Nastasia. "How is it that, five or six days since, I read exactly the same story in the paper, as happening between a Frenchman and an English girl? The cigar was snatched away exactly as you describe, and the poodle was chucked out of the window after it. The slapping came off, too, as in your case; and the girl's dress was light blue!" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 70 The general blushed dreadfully; Colia blushed too; and Ptitsin turned hastily away. Ferdishenko was the only one who laughed as gaily as before. As to Gania, I need not say that he was miserable; he stood dumb and wretched and took no notice of anybody. "I assure you," said the general, "that exactly the same thing happened to myself!" "I remembered there was some quarrel between father and Miss Smith, the Bielokonski's governess," said Colia. "How very curious, point for point the same anecdote, and happening at different ends of Europe! Even the light blue dress the same," continued the pitiless Nastasia. "I must really send you the paper." "You must observe," insisted the general, "that my experience was two years earlier." "Ah! that's it, no doubt!" Nastasia Philipovna laughed hysterically. "Father, will you hear a word from me outside!" said Gania, his voice shaking with agitation, as he seized his father by the shoulder. His eyes shone with a blaze of hatred. At this moment there was a terrific bang at the front door, almost enough to break it down. Some most unusual visitor must have arrived. Colia ran to open. X. THE entrance-hall suddenly became full of noise and people. To judge from the sounds which penetrated to the drawing-room, a number of people had already come in, and the stampede continued. Several voices were talking and shouting at once; others were talking and shouting on the stairs outside; it was evidently a most extraordinary visit that was about to take place. Everyone exchanged startled glances. Gania rushed out towards the dining-room, but a number of men had already made their way in, and met him. "Ah! here he is, the Judas!" cried a voice which the prince recognized at once. "How d'ye do, Gania, you old blackguard?" "Yes, that's the man!" said another voice. There was no room for doubt in the prince's mind: one of the voices was Rogojin's, and the other Lebedeff's. Gania stood at the door like a block and looked on in silence, putting no obstacle in the way of their entrance, and ten or a dozen men marched in behind Parfen Rogojin. They were a decidedly mixed-looking collection, and some of them came in in their furs and caps. None of them were quite drunk, but all appeared to De considerably excited. They seemed to need each other's support, morally, before they dared come in; not one of them would have entered alone but with the rest each one was brave enough. Even Rogojin entered rather cautiously at the head of his troop; but he was evidently preoccupied. He appeared to be gloomy and morose, and had clearly come with some end in view. All the rest were merely chorus, brought in to support the chief character. Besides Lebedeff there was the dandy Zalesheff, who came in without his coat and hat, two or three others followed his example; the rest were more uncouth. They included a couple of young merchants, a man in a great-coat, a by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 71 medical student, a little Pole, a small fat man who laughed continuously, and an enormously tall stout one who apparently put great faith in the strength of his fists. A couple of "ladies" of some sort put their heads in at the front door, but did not dare come any farther. Colia promptly banged the door in their faces and locked it. "Hallo, Gania, you blackguard! You didn't expect Rogojin, eh?" said the latter, entering the drawing-room, and stopping before Gania. But at this moment he saw, seated before him, Nastasia Philipovna. He had not dreamed of meeting her here, evidently, for her appearance produced a marvellous effect upon him. He grew pale, and his lips became actually blue. "I suppose it is true, then!" he muttered to himself, and his face took on an expression of despair. "So that's the end of it! Now you, sir, will you answer me or not?" he went on suddenly, gazing at Gania with ineffable malice. "Now then, you--" He panted, and could hardly speak for agitation. He advanced into the room mechanically; but perceiving Nina Alexandrovna and Varia he became more or less embarrassed, in spite of his excitement. His followers entered after him, and all paused a moment at sight of the ladies. Of course their modesty was not fated to be long- lived, but for a moment they were abashed. Once let them begin to shout, however, and nothing on earth should disconcert them. "What, you here too, prince?" said Rogojin, absently, but a little surprised all the same " Still in your gaiters, eh?" He sighed, and forgot the prince next moment, and his wild eyes wandered over to Nastasia again, as though attracted in that direction by some magnetic force. Nastasia looked at the new arrivals with great curiosity. Gania recollected himself at last. "Excuse me, sirs," he said, loudly, "but what does all this mean?" He glared at the advancing crowd generally, but addressed his remarks especially to their captain, Rogojin. "You are not in a stable, gentlemen, though you may think it--my mother and sister are present." "Yes, I see your mother and sister," muttered Rogojin, through his teeth; and Lebedeff seemed to feel himself called upon to second the statement. "At all events, I must request you to step into the salon," said Gania, his rage rising quite out of proportion to his words, "and then I shall inquire--" "What, he doesn't know me!" said Rogojin, showing his teeth disagreeably. "He doesn't recognize Rogojin!" He did not move an inch, however. "I have met you somewhere, I believe, but--" "Met me somewhere, pfu! Why, it's only three months since I lost two hundred roubles of my father's money to you, at cards. The old fellow died before he found out. Ptitsin knows all about it. Why, I've only to pull out a three-rouble note and show it to you, and you'd crawl on your hands and knees to the other end of the town for it; that's the sort of man you are. Why, I've come now, at this moment, to buy you up! Oh, you needn't think that because I wear these boots I have no money. I have lots of money, my beauty,--enough to buy up you and all yours together. So I shall, if I like to! I'll buy you up! I will!" he yelled, apparently growing more and more intoxicated and excited." Oh, Nastasia Philipovna! don't turn me out! Say one word, do! Are you going to marry this man, or not?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 72 Rogojin asked his question like a lost soul appealing to some divinity, with the reckless daring of one appointed to die, who has nothing to lose. He awaited the reply in deadly anxiety. Nastasia Philipovna gazed at him with a haughty, ironical. expression of face; but when she glanced at Nina Alexandrovna and Varia, and from them to Gania, she changed her tone, all of a sudden. "Certainly not; what are you thinking of? What could have induced you to ask such a question?" she replied, quietly and seriously, and even, apparently, with some astonishment. "No? No?" shouted Rogojin, almost out of his mind with joy. "You are not going to, after all? And they told me--oh, Nastasia Philipovna--they said you had promised to marry him, HIM! As if you COULD do it!--him--pooh! I don't mind saying it to everyone-- I'd buy him off for a hundred roubles, any day pfu! Give him a thousand, or three if he likes, poor devil' and he'd cut and run the day before his wedding, and leave his bride to me! Wouldn't you, Gania, you blackguard? You'd take three thousand, wouldn't you? Here's the money! Look, I've come on purpose to pay you off and get your receipt, formally. I said I'd buy you up, and so I will." "Get out of this, you drunken beast!" cried Gania, who was red and white by turns. Rogojin's troop, who were only waiting for an excuse, set up a howl at this. Lebedeff stepped forward and whispered something in Parfen's ear. "You're right, clerk," said the latter, "you're right, tipsy spirit--you're right!--Nastasia Philipovna," he added, looking at her like some lunatic, harmless generally, but suddenly wound up to a pitch of audacity, "here are eighteen thousand roubles, and--and you shall have more--." Here he threw a packet of bank- notes tied up in white paper, on the table before her, not daring to say all he wished to say. "No-no-no!" muttered Lebedeff, clutching at his arm. He was clearly aghast at the largeness of the sum, and thought a far smaller amount should have been tried first. "No, you fool--you don't know whom you are dealing with--and it appears I am a fool, too!" said Parfen, trembling beneath the flashing glance of Nastasia. "Oh, curse it all! What a fool I was to listen to you!" he added, with profound melancholy. Nastasia Philipovna, observing his woe-begone expression, suddenly burst out laughing. "Eighteen thousand roubles, for me? Why, you declare yourself a fool at once," she said, with impudent familiarity, as she rose from the sofa and prepared to go. Gania watched the whole scene with a sinking of the heart. "Forty thousand, then--forty thousand roubles instead of eighteen! Ptitsin and another have promised to find me forty thousand roubles by seven o'clock tonight. Forty thousand roubles--paid down on the nail!" The scene was growing more and more disgraceful; but Nastasia Philipovna continued to laugh and did not go away. Nina Alexandrovna and Varia had both risen from their places and were waiting, in silent horror, to see what would happen. Varia's eyes were all ablaze with anger; but the scene had a different effect on Nina Alexandrovna. She paled and trembled, and looked more and more like fainting every moment. "Very well then, a HUNDRED thousand! a hundred thousand! paid this very day. Ptitsin! find it for me. A good share shall stick to your fingers--come!" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 73 "You are mad!" said Ptitsin, coming up quickly and seizing him by the hand. "You're drunk--the police will be sent for if you don't look out. Think where you are." "Yes, he's boasting like a drunkard," added Nastasia, as though with the sole intention of goading him. "I do NOT boast! You shall have a hundred thousand, this very day. Ptitsin, get the money, you gay usurer! Take what you like for it, but get it by the evening! I'll show that I'm in earnest!" cried Rogojin, working himself up into a frenzy of excitement. "Come, come; what's all this?" cried General Ivolgin, suddenly and angrily, coming close up to Rogojin. The unexpectedness of this sally on the part of the hitherto silent old man caused some laughter among the intruders. "Halloa! what's this now?" laughed Rogojin. "You come along with me, old fellow! You shall have as much to drink as you like." "Oh, it's too horrible!" cried poor Colia, sobbing with shame and annoyance. "Surely there must be someone among all of you here who will turn this shameless creature out of the room?" cried Varia, suddenly. She was shaking and trembling with rage. "That's me, I suppose. I'm the shameless creature!" cried Nastasia Philipovna, with amused indifference. "Dear me, and I came--like a fool, as I am--to invite them over to my house for the evening! Look how your sister treats me, Gavrila Ardalionovitch." For some moments Gania stood as if stunned or struck by lightning, after his sister's speech. But seeing that Nastasia Philipovna was really about to leave the room this time, he sprang at Varia and seized her by the arm like a madman. "What have you done?" he hissed, glaring at her as though he would like to annihilate her on the spot. He was quite beside himself, and could hardly articulate his words for rage. "What have I done? Where are you dragging me to?" "Do you wish me to beg pardon of this creature because she has come here to insult our mother and disgrace the whole household, you low, base wretch?" cried Varia, looking back at her brother with proud defiance. A few moments passed as they stood there face to face, Gania still holding her wrist tightly. Varia struggled once--twice--to get free; then could restrain herself no longer, and spat in his face. "There's a girl for you!" cried Nastasia Philipovna. "Mr. Ptitsin, I congratulate you on your choice." Gania lost his head. Forgetful of everything he aimed a blow at Varia, which would inevitably have laid her low, but suddenly another hand caught his. Between him and Varia stood the prince. "Enough--enough!" said the latter, with insistence, but all of a tremble with excitement. "Are you going to cross my path for ever, damn you!" cried Gania; and, loosening his hold on Varia, he slapped the prince's face with all his force. Exclamations of horror arose on all sides. The prince grew pale as death; he gazed into Gania's eyes with a strange, wild, reproachful look; his lips trembled and vainly endeavoured to form some words; then his mouth by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 74 twisted into an incongruous smile. "Very well--never mind about me; but I shall not allow you to strike her!" he said, at last, quietly. Then, suddenly, he could bear it no longer, and covering his face with his hands, turned to the wall, and murmured in broken accents: "Oh! how ashamed you will be of this afterwards!" Gania certainly did look dreadfully abashed. Colia rushed up to comfort the prince, and after him crowded Varia, Rogojin and all, even the general. "It's nothing, it's nothing!" said the prince, and again he wore the smile which was so inconsistent with the circumstances. "Yes, he will be ashamed!" cried Rogojin. "You will be properly ashamed of yourself for having injured such a--such a sheep" (he could not find a better word). "Prince, my dear fellow, leave this and come away with me. I'll show you how Rogojin shows his affection for his friends." Nastasia Philipovna was also much impressed, both with Gania's action and with the prince's reply. Her usually thoughtful, pale face, which all this while had been so little in harmony with the jests and laughter which she had seemed to put on for the occasion, was now evidently agitated by new feelings, though she tried to conceal the fact and to look as though she were as ready as ever for jesting and irony. "I really think I must have seen him somewhere!" she murmured seriously enough. "Oh, aren't you ashamed of yourself--aren't you ashamed? Are you really the sort of woman you are trying to represent yourself to be? Is it possible?" The prince was now addressing Nastasia, in a tone of reproach, which evidently came from his very heart. Nastasia Philipovna looked surprised, and smiled, but evidently concealed something beneath her smile and with some confusion and a glance at Gania she left the room. However, she had not reached the outer hall when she turned round, walked quickly up to Nina Alexandrovna, seized her hand and lifted it to her lips. "He guessed quite right. I am not that sort of woman," she whispered hurriedly, flushing red all over. Then she turned again and left the room so quickly that no one could imagine what she had come back for. All they saw was that she said something to Nina Alexandrovna in a hurried whisper, and seemed to kiss her hand. Varia, however, both saw and heard all, and watched Nastasia out of the room with an expression of wonder. Gania recollected himself in time to rush after her in order to show her out, but she had gone. He followed her to the stairs. "Don't come with me," she cried, "Au revoir, till the evening--do you hear? Au revoir!" He returned thoughtful and confused; the riddle lay heavier than ever on his soul. He was troubled about the prince, too, and so bewildered that he did not even observe Rogojin's rowdy band crowd past him and step on his toes, at the door as they went out. They were all talking at once. Rogojin went ahead of the others, talking to Ptitsin, and apparently insisting vehemently upon something very important "You've lost the game, Gania" he cried, as he passed the latter. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 75 Gania gazed after him uneasily, but said nothing. XI. THE prince now left the room and shut himself up in his own chamber. Colia followed him almost at once, anxious to do what he could to console him. The poor boy seemed to be already so attached to him that he could hardly leave him. "You were quite right to go away!" he said. "The row will rage there worse than ever now; and it's like this every day with us-- and all through that Nastasia Philipovna." "You have so many sources of trouble here, Colia," said the prince. "Yes, indeed, and it is all our own fault. But I have a great friend who is much worse off even than we are. Would you like to know him?" "Yes, very much. Is he one of your school-fellows?" "Well, not exactly. I will tell you all about him some day. . . . What do you think of Nastasia Philipovna? She is beautiful, isn't she? I had never seen her before, though I had a great wish to do so. She fascinated me. I could forgive Gania if he were to marry her for love, but for money! Oh dear! that is horrible!" "Yes, your brother does not attract me much." "I am not surprised at that. After what you ... But I do hate that way of looking at things! Because some fool, or a rogue pretending to be a fool, strikes a man, that man is to be dishonoured for his whole life, unless he wipes out the disgrace with blood, or makes his assailant beg forgiveness on his knees! I think that so very absurd and tyrannical. Lermontoff's Bal Masque is based on that idea--a stupid and unnatural one, in my opinion; but he was hardly more than a child when he wrote it." "I like your sister very much." "Did you see how she spat in Gania's face! Varia is afraid of no one. But you did not follow her example, and yet I am sure it was not through cowardice. Here she comes! Speak of a wolf and you see his tail! I felt sure that she would come. She is very generous, though of course she has her faults." Varia pounced upon her brother. "This is not the place for you," said she. "Go to father. Is he plaguing you, prince?" "Not in the least; on the contrary, he interests me." "Scolding as usual, Varia! It is the worst thing about her. After all, I believe father may have started off with Rogojin. No doubt he is sorry now. Perhaps I had better go and see what he is doing," added Colia, running off. "Thank God, I have got mother away, and put her to bed without another scene! Gania is worried--and ashamed--not without reason! What a spectacle! I have come to thank you once more, prince, and to ask you if you knew Nastasia Philipovna before "No, I have never known her." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 76 "Then what did you mean, when you said straight out to her that she was not really 'like that'? You guessed right, I fancy. It is quite possible she was not herself at the moment, though I cannot fathom her meaning. Evidently she meant to hurt and insult us. I have heard curious tales about her before now, but if she came to invite us to her house, why did she behave so to my mother? Ptitsin knows her very well; he says he could not understand her today. With Rogojin, too! No one with a spark of self-respect could have talked like that in the house of her... Mother is extremely vexed on your account, too... "That is nothing!" said the prince, waving his hand. "But how meek she was when you spoke to her!" "Meek! What do you mean?" "You told her it was a shame for her to behave so, and her manner changed at once; she was like another person. You have some influence over her, prince," added Varia, smiling a little. The door opened at this point, and in came Gania most unexpectedly. He was not in the least disconcerted to see Varia there, but he stood a moment at the door, and then approached the prince quietly. "Prince," he said, with feeling, "I was a blackguard. Forgive me!" His face gave evidence of suffering. The prince was considerably amazed, and did not reply at once. "Oh, come, forgive me, forgive me!" Gania insisted, rather impatiently. "If you like, I'll kiss your hand. There!" The prince was touched; he took Gania's hands, and embraced him heartily, while each kissed the other. "I never, never thought you were like that," said Muishkin, drawing a deep breath. "I thought you--you weren't capable of--" "Of what? Apologizing, eh? And where on earth did I get the idea that you were an idiot? You always observe what other people pass by unnoticed; one could talk sense to you, but--" "Here is another to whom you should apologize," said the prince, pointing to Varia. "No, no! they are all enemies! I've tried them often enough, believe me," and Gania turned his back on Varia with these words. "But if I beg you to make it up?" said Varia. "And you'll go to Nastasia Philipovna's this evening--" "If you insist: but, judge for yourself, can I go, ought I to go?" "But she is not that sort of woman, I tell you!" said Gania, angrily. "She was only acting." "I know that--I know that; but what a part to play! And think what she must take YOU for, Gania! I know she kissed mother's hand, and all that, but she laughed at you, all the same. All this is not good enough for seventy-five thousand roubles, my dear boy. You are capable of honourable feelings still, and that's why I am talking to you so. Oh! DO take care what you are doing! Don't you know yourself that it will end badly, Gania?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 77 So saying, and in a state of violent agitation, Varia left the room. "There, they are all like that," said Gania, laughing, "just as if I do not know all about it much better than they do." He sat down with these words, evidently intending to prolong his visit. "If you know it so well," said the prince a little timidly, "why do you choose all this worry for the sake of the seventy-five thousand, which, you confess, does not cover it?" "I didn't mean that," said Gania; "but while we are upon the subject, let me hear your opinion. Is all this worry worth seventy-five thousand or not? "Certainly not." "Of course! And it would be a disgrace to marry so, eh?" "A great disgrace." "Oh, well, then you may know that I shall certainly do it, now. I shall certainly marry her. I was not quite sure of myself before, but now I am. Don't say a word: I know what you want to tell me--" "No. I was only going to say that what surprises me most of all is your extraordinary confidence." "How so? What in?" "That Nastasia Philipovna will accept you, and that the question is as good as settled; and secondly, that even if she did, you would be able to pocket the money. Of course, I know very little about it, but that's my view. When a man marries for money it often happens that the wife keeps the money in her own hands." "Of course, you don't know all; but, I assure you, you needn't be afraid, it won't be like that in our case. There are circumstances," said Gania, rather excitedly. "And as to her answer to me, there's no doubt about that. Why should you suppose she will refuse me?" "Oh, I only judge by what I see. Varvara Ardalionovna said just now--" "Oh she--they don't know anything about it! Nastasia was only chaffing Rogojin. I was alarmed at first, but I have thought better of it now; she was simply laughing at him. She looks on me as a fool because I show that I meant her money, and doesn't realize that there are other men who would deceive her in far worse fashion. I'm not going to pretend anything, and you'll see she'll marry me, all right. If she likes to live quietly, so she shall; but if she gives me any of her nonsense, I shall leave her at once, but I shall keep the money. I'm not going to look a fool; that's the first thing, not to look a fool." "But Nastasia Philipovna seems to me to be such a SENSIBLE woman, and, as such, why should she run blindly into this business? That's what puzzles me so," said the prince. "You don't know all, you see; I tell you there are things--and besides, I'm sure that she is persuaded that I love her to distraction, and I give you my word I have a strong suspicion that she loves me, too--in her own way, of course. She thinks she will be able to make a sort of slave of me all my life; but I shall prepare a little surprise for her. I don't know whether I ought to be confidential with you, prince; but, I assure you, you are the only decent fellow I have come across. I have not spoken so sincerely as I am doing at this moment for years. There are uncommonly few honest people about, prince; there isn't one honester than Ptitsin, he's the best of by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 78 the lot. Are you laughing? You don't know, perhaps, that blackguards like honest people, and being one myself I like you. WHY am I a blackguard? Tell me honestly, now. They all call me a blackguard because of her, and I have got into the way of thinking myself one. That's what is so bad about the business." "I for one shall never think you a blackguard again," said the prince. "I confess I had a poor opinion of you at first, but I have been so joyfully surprised about you just now; it's a good lesson for me. I shall never judge again without a thorough trial. I see now that you are riot only not a blackguard, but are not even quite spoiled. I see that you are quite an ordinary man, not original in the least degree, but rather weak." Gania laughed sarcastically, but said nothing. The prince, seeing that he did not quite like the last remark, blushed, and was silent too. "Has my father asked you for money?" asked Gania, suddenly. "No." "Don't give it to him if he does. Fancy, he was a decent, respectable man once! He was received in the best society; he was not always the liar he is now. Of course, wine is at the bottom of it all; but he is a good deal worse than an innocent liar now. Do you know that he keeps a mistress? I can't understand how mother is so long-sufferring. Did he tell you the story of the siege of Kars? Or perhaps the one about his grey horse that talked? He loves, to enlarge on these absurd histories." And Gania burst into a fit of laughter. Suddenly he turned to the prince and asked: "Why are you looking at me like that?" "I am surprised to see you laugh in that way, like a child. You came to make friends with me again just now, and you said, 'I will kiss your hand, if you like,' just as a child would have said it. And then, all at once you are talking of this mad project--of these seventy-five thousand roubles! It all seems so absurd and impossible." "Well, what conclusion have you reached?" "That you are rushing madly into the undertaking, and that you would do well to think it over again. It is more than possible that Varvara Ardalionovna is right." "Ah! now you begin to moralize! I know that I am only a child, very well," replied Gania impatiently. "That is proved by my having this conversation with you. It is not for money only, prince, that I am rushing into this affair," he continued, hardly master of his words, so closely had his vanity been touched. "If I reckoned on that I should certainly be deceived, for I am still too weak in mind and character. I am obeying a passion, an impulse perhaps, because I have but one aim, one that overmasters all else. You imagine that once I am in possession of these seventy-five thousand roubles, I shall rush to buy a carriage... No, I shall go on wearing the old overcoat I have worn for three years, and I shall give up my club. I shall follow the example of men who have made their fortunes. When Ptitsin was seventeen he slept in the street, he sold pen-knives, and began with a copeck; now he has sixty thousand roubles, but to get them, what has he not done? Well, I shall be spared such a hard beginning, and shall start with a little capital. In fifteen years people will say, 'Look, that's Ivolgin, the king of the Jews!' You say that I have no originality. Now mark this, prince-- there is nothing so offensive to a man of our time and race than to be told that he is wanting in originality, that he is weak in character, has no particular talent, and is, in short, an ordinary person. You have not even done me the honour of looking upon me as a rogue. Do you know, I could have knocked you down for that just now! You wounded me more cruelly than Epanchin, who thinks me capable of selling him my wife! Observe, it was a perfectly gratuitous idea on his part, seeing there has never been any discussion of it between us! This has exasperated me, and I am determined to make a fortune! I will do it! Once I am rich, I shall be a genius, an extremely original man. One of the vilest and most hateful things connected with money is that it can buy even talent; and will do so as long as the world lasts. You will say that this is childish--or romantic. Well, that will be all the better for me, but the thing shall be done. I will carry it through. He laughs most, who laughs by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 79 last. Why does Epanchin insult me? Simply because, socially, I am a nobody. However, enough for the present. Colia has put his nose in to tell us dinner is ready, twice. I'm dining out. I shall come and talk to you now and then; you shall be comfortable enough with us. They are sure to make you one of the family. I think you and I will either be great friends or enemies. Look here now, supposing I had kissed your hand just now, as I offered to do in all sincerity, should I have hated you for it afterwards?" "Certainly, but not always. You would not have been able to keep it up, and would have ended by forgiving me," said the prince, after a pause for reflection, and with a pleasant smile. "Oho, how careful one has to be with you, prince! Haven't you put a drop of poison in that remark now, eh? By the way--ha, ha, ha!-- I forgot to ask, was I right in believing that you were a good deal struck yourself with Nastasia Philipovna "Ye-yes." "Are you in love with her?" "N-no." "And yet you flush up as red as a rosebud! Come--it's all right. I'm not going to laugh at you. Do you know she is a very virtuous woman? Believe it or not, as you like. You think she and Totski-- not a bit of it, not a bit of it! Not for ever so long! Au revoir!" Gania left the room in great good humour. The prince stayed behind, and meditated alone for a few minutes. At length, Colia popped his head in once more. "I don't want any dinner, thanks, Colia. I had too good a lunch at General Epanchin's." Colia came into the room and gave the prince a note; it was from the general and was carefully sealed up. It was clear from Colia's face how painful it was to him to deliver the missive. The prince read it, rose, and took his hat. "It's only a couple of yards," said Colia, blushing. "He's sitting there over his bottle--and how they can give him credit, I cannot understand. Don't tell mother I brought you the note, prince; I have sworn not to do it a thousand times, but I'm always so sorry for him. Don't stand on ceremony, give him some trifle, and let that end it." "Come along, Colia, I want to see your father. I have an idea," said the prince. XII. Colia took the prince to a public-house in the Litaynaya, not far off. In one of the side rooms there sat at a table--looking like one of the regular guests of the establishment--Ardalion Alexandrovitch, with a bottle before him, and a newspaper on his knee. He was waiting for the prince, and no sooner did the latter appear than he began a long harangue about something or other; but so far gone was he that the prince could hardly understand a word. "I have not got a ten-rouble note," said the prince; "but here is a twenty-five. Change it and give me back the fifteen, or I shall be left without a farthing myself." "Oh, of course, of course; and you quite understand that I--" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 80 "Yes; and I have another request to make, general. Have you ever been at Nastasia Philipovna's?" "I? I? Do you mean me? Often, my friend, often! I only pretended I had not in order to avoid a painful subject. You saw today, you were a witness, that I did all that a kind, an indulgent father could do. Now a father of altogether another type shall step into the scene. You shall see; the old soldier shall lay bare this intrigue, or a shameless woman will force her way into a respectable and noble family." "Yes, quite so. I wished to ask you whether you could show me the way to Nastasia Philipovna's tonight. I must go; I have business with her; I was not invited but I was introduced. Anyhow I am ready to trespass the laws of propriety if only I can get in somehow or other." "My dear young friend, you have hit on my very idea. It was not for this rubbish I asked you to come over here" (he pocketed the money, however, at this point), "it was to invite your alliance in the campaign against Nastasia Philipovna tonight. How well it sounds, 'General Ivolgin and Prince Muishkin.' That'll fetch her, I think, eh? Capital! We'll go at nine; there's time yet." "Where does she live?" "Oh, a long way off, near the Great Theatre, just in the square there--It won't be a large party." The general sat on and on. He had ordered a fresh bottle when the prince arrived; this took him an hour to drink, and then he had another, and another, during the consumption of which he told pretty nearly the whole story of his life. The prince was in despair. He felt that though he had but applied to this miserable old drunkard because he saw no other way of getting to Nastasia Philipovna's, yet he had been very wrong to put the slightest confidence in such a man. At last he rose and declared that he would wait no longer. The general rose too, drank the last drops that he could squeeze out of the bottle, and staggered into the street. Muishkin began to despair. He could not imagine how he had been so foolish as to trust this man. He only wanted one thing, and that was to get to Nastasia Philipovna's, even at the cost of a certain amount of impropriety. But now the scandal threatened to be more than he had bargained for. By this time Ardalion Alexandrovitch was quite intoxicated, and he kept his companion listening while he discoursed eloquently and pathetically on subjects of all kinds, interspersed with torrents of recrimination against the members of his family. He insisted that all his troubles were caused by their bad conduct, and time alone would put an end to them. At last they reached the Litaynaya. The thaw increased steadily, a warm, unhealthy wind blew through the streets, vehicles splashed through the mud, and the iron shoes of horses and mules rang on the paving stones. Crowds of melancholy people plodded wearily along the footpaths, with here and there a drunken man among them. "Do you see those brightly-lighted windows?" said the general. "Many of my old comrades-in-arms live about here, and I, who served longer, and suffered more than any of them, am walking on foot to the house of a woman of rather questionable reputation! A man, look you, who has thirteen bullets on his breast! ... You don't believe it? Well, I can assure you it was entirely on my account that Pirogoff telegraphed to Paris, and left Sebastopol at the greatest risk during the siege. Nelaton, the Tuileries surgeon, demanded a safe conduct, in the name of science, into the besieged city in order to attend my wounds. The government knows all about it. 'That's the Ivolgin with thirteen bullets in him!' That's how they speak of me.... Do you see that house, prince? One of my old friends lives on the first floor, with his large family. In this and five other houses, three overlooking Nevsky, two in the Morskaya, are all that remain of my personal friends. Nina Alexandrovna gave them up long ago, but I keep in touch with them still... I may say I find refreshment in this little coterie, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 81 in thus meeting my old acquaintances and subordinates, who worship me still, in spite of all. General Sokolovitch (by the way, I have not called on him lately, or seen Anna Fedorovna)... You know, my dear prince, when a person does not receive company himself, he gives up going to other people's houses involuntarily. And yet ... well ... you look as if you didn't believe me.... Well now, why should I not present the son of my old friend and companion to this delightful family--General Ivolgin and Prince Muishkin? You will see a lovely girl--what am I saying--a lovely girl? No, indeed, two, three! Ornaments of this city and of society: beauty, education, culture--the woman question--poetry--everything! Added to which is the fact that each one will have a dot of at least eighty thousand roubles. No bad thing, eh? ... In a word I absolutely must introduce you to them: it is a duty, an obligation. General Ivolgin and Prince Muishkin. Tableau!" "At once? Now? You must have forgotten ... " began the prince. "No, I have forgotten nothing. Come! This is the house--up this magnificent staircase. I am surprised not to see the porter, but .... it is a holiday ... and the man has gone off ... Drunken fool! Why have they not got rid of him? Sokolovitch owes all the happiness he has had in the service and in his private life to me, and me alone, but ... here we are." The prince followed quietly, making no further objection for fear of irritating the old man. At the same time he fervently hoped that General Sokolovitch and his family would fade away like a mirage in the desert, so that the visitors could escape, by merely returning downstairs. But to his horror he saw that General Ivolgin was quite familiar with the house, and really seemed to have friends there. At every step he named some topographical or biographical detail that left nothing to be desired on the score of accuracy. When they arrived at last, on the first floor, and the general turned to ring the bell to the right, the prince decided to run away, but a curious incident stopped him momentarily. "You have made a mistake, general," said he. " The name on the door is Koulakoff, and you were going to see General Sokolovitch." "Koulakoff ... Koulakoff means nothing. This is Sokolovitch's flat, and I am ringing at his door.... What do I care for Koulakoff? ... Here comes someone to open." In fact, the door opened directly, and the footman in formed the visitors that the family were all away. "What a pity! What a pity! It's just my luck!" repeated Ardalion Alexandrovitch over and over again, in regretful tones. " When your master and mistress return, my man, tell them that General Ivolgin and Prince Muishkin desired to present themselves, and that they were extremely sorry, excessively grieved ..." Just then another person belonging to the household was seen at the back of the hall. It was a woman of some forty years, dressed in sombre colours, probably a housekeeper or a governess. Hearing the names she came forward with a look of suspicion on her face. "Marie Alexandrovna is not at home," said she, staring hard at the general. "She has gone to her mother's, with Alexandra Michailovna." "Alexandra Michailovna out, too! How disappointing! Would you believe it, I am always so unfortunate! May I most respectfully ask you to present my compliments to Alexandra Michailovna, and remind her ... tell her, that with my whole heart I wish for her what she wished for herself on Thursday evening, while she was listening to Chopin's Ballade. She will remember. I wish it with all sincerity. General Ivolgin and Prince Muishkin!" The woman's face changed; she lost her suspicious expression. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 82 "I will not fail to deliver your message," she replied, and bowed them out. As they went downstairs the general regretted repeatedly that he had failed to introduce the prince to his friends. "You know I am a bit of a poet," said he. "Have you noticed it? The poetic soul, you know." Then he added suddenly--"But after all ... after all I believe we made a mistake this time! I remember that the Sokolovitch's live in another house, and what is more, they are just now in Moscow. Yes, I certainly was at fault. However, it is of no consequence." "Just tell me," said the prince in reply, "may I count still on your assistance? Or shall I go on alone to see Nastasia Philipovna?" "Count on my assistance? Go alone? How can you ask me that question, when it is a matter on which the fate of my family so largely depends? You don't know Ivolgin, my friend. To trust Ivolgin is to trust a rock; that's how the first squadron I commanded spoke of me. 'Depend upon Ivolgin,' said they all, 'he is as steady as a rock.' But, excuse me, I must just call at a house on our way, a house where I have found consolation and help in all my trials for years." "You are going home?" "No ... I wish ... to visit Madame Terentieff, the widow of Captain Terentieff, my old subordinate and friend. She helps me to keep up my courage, and to bear the trials of my domestic life, and as I have an extra burden on my mind today ..." "It seems to me," interrupted the prince, "that I was foolish to trouble you just now. However, at present you ... Good-bye!" "Indeed, you must not go away like that, young man, you must not!" cried the general. "My friend here is a widow, the mother of a family; her words come straight from her heart, and find an echo in mine. A visit to her is merely an affair of a few minutes; I am quite at home in her house. I will have a wash, and dress, and then we can drive to the Grand Theatre. Make up your mind to spend the evening with me.... We are just there--that's the house... Why, Colia! you here! Well, is Marfa Borisovna at home or have you only just come?" "Oh no! I have been here a long while," replied Colia, who was at the front door when the general met him. "I am keeping Hippolyte company. He is worse, and has been in bed all day. I came down to buy some cards. Marfa Borisovna expects you. But what a state you are in, father!" added the boy, noticing his father's unsteady gait. "Well, let us go in." On meeting Colia the prince determined to accompany the general, though he made up his mind to stay as short a time as possible. He wanted Colia, but firmly resolved to leave the general behind. He could not forgive himself for being so simple as to imagine that Ivolgin would be of any use. The three climbed up the long staircase until they reached the fourth floor where Madame Terentieff lived. "You intend to introduce the prince?" asked Colia, as they went up. "Yes, my boy. I wish to present him: General Ivolgin and Prince Muishkin! But what's the matter? ... what? ... How is Marfa Borisovna?" "You know, father, you would have done much better not to come at all! She is ready to eat you up! You have not shown yourself since the day before yesterday and she is expecting the money. Why did you promise her by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 83 any? You are always the same! Well, now you will have to get out of it as best you can." They stopped before a somewhat low doorway on the fourth floor. Ardalion Alexandrovitch, evidently much out of countenance, pushed Muishkin in front. "I will wait here," he stammered. "I should like to surprise her. ...." Colia entered first, and as the door stood open, the mistress of the house peeped out. The surprise of the general's imagination fell very flat, for she at once began to address him in terms of reproach. Marfa Borisovna was about forty years of age. She wore a dressing-jacket, her feet were in slippers, her face painted, and her hair was in dozens of small plaits. No sooner did she catch sight of Ardalion Alexandrovitch than she screamed: "There he is, that wicked, mean wretch! I knew it was he! My heart misgave me!" The old man tried to put a good face on the affair. "Come, let us go in--it's all right," he whispered in the prince's ear. But it was more serious than he wished to think. As soon as the visitors had crossed the low dark hall, and entered the narrow reception-room, furnished with half a dozen cane chairs, and two small card-tables, Madame Terentieff, in the shrill tones habitual to her, continued her stream of invectives. "Are you not ashamed? Are you not ashamed? You barbarian! You tyrant! You have robbed me of all I possessed--you have sucked my bones to the marrow. How long shall I be your victim? Shameless, dishonourable man!" "Marfa Borisovna! Marfa Borisovna! Here is ... the Prince Muishkin! General Ivolgin and Prince Muishkin," stammered the disconcerted old man. "Would you believe," said the mistress of the house, suddenly addressing the prince, "would you believe that that man has not even spared my orphan children? He has stolen everything I possessed, sold everything, pawned everything; he has left me nothing--nothing! What am I to do with your IOU's, you cunning, unscrupulous rogue? Answer, devourer I answer, heart of stone! How shall I feed my orphans? with what shall I nourish them? And now he has come, he is drunk! He can scarcely stand. How, oh how, have I offended the Almighty, that He should bring this curse upon me! Answer, you worthless villain, answer!" But this was too much for the general. "Here are twenty-five roubles, Marfa Borisovna ... it is all that I can give ... and I owe even these to the prince's generosity--my noble friend. I have been cruelly deceived. Such is ... life ... Now ... Excuse me, I am very weak," he continued, standing in the centre of the room, and bowing to all sides. "I am faint; excuse me! Lenotchka ... a cushion ... my dear!" Lenotchka, a little girl of eight, ran to fetch the cushion at once, and placed it on the rickety old sofa. The general meant to have said much more, but as soon as he had stretched himself out, he turned his face to the wall, and slept the sleep of the just. With a grave and ceremonious air, Marfa Borisovna motioned the prince to a chair at one of the card-tables. She seated herself opposite, leaned her right cheek on her hand, and sat in silence, her eyes fixed on Muishkin, now and again sighing deeply. The three children, two little girls and a boy, Lenotchka being the eldest, came by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 84 and leant on the table and also stared steadily at him. Presently Colia appeared from the adjoining room. "I am very glad indeed to have met you here, Colia," said the prince. "Can you do something for me? I must see Nastasia Philipovna, and I asked Ardalion Alexandrovitch just now to take me to her house, but he has gone to sleep, as you see. Will you show me the way, for I do not know the street? I have the address, though; it is close to the Grand Theatre." "Nastasia Philipovna? She does not live there, and to tell you the truth my father has never been to her house! It is strange that you should have depended on him! She lives near Wladimir Street, at the Five Corners, and it is quite close by. Will you go directly? It is just half-past nine. I will show you the way with pleasure." Colia and the prince went off together. Alas! the latter had no money to pay for a cab, so they were obliged to walk. "I should have liked to have taken you to see Hippolyte," said Colia. "He is the eldest son of the lady you met just now, and was in the next room. He is ill, and has been in bed all day. But he is rather strange, and extremely sensitive, and I thought he might be upset considering the circumstances in which you came ... Somehow it touches me less, as it concerns my father, while it is HIS mother. That, of course, makes a great difference. What is a terrible disgrace to a woman, does not disgrace a man, at least not in the same way. Perhaps public opinion is wrong in condemning one sex, and excusing the other. Hippolyte is an extremely clever boy, but so prejudiced. He is really a slave to his opinions." "Do you say he is consumptive?" "Yes. It really would be happier for him to die young. If I were in his place I should certainly long for death. He is unhappy about his brother and sisters, the children you saw. If it were possible, if we only had a little money, we should leave our respective families, and live together in a little apartment of our own. It is our dream. But, do you know, when I was talking over your affair with him, he was angry, and said that anyone who did not call out a man who had given him a blow was a coward. He is very irritable to-day, and I left off arguing the matter with him. So Nastasia Philipovna has invited you to go and see her?" "To tell the truth, she has not." "Then how do you come to be going there?" cried Colia, so much astonished that he stopped short in the middle of the pavement. "And ... and are you going to her At Home in that costume?" "I don't know, really, whether I shall be allowed in at all. If she will receive me, so much the better. If not, the matter is ended. As to my clothes--what can I do?" "Are you going there for some particular reason, or only as a way of getting into her society, and that of her friends?" "No, I have really an object in going ... That is, I am going on business it is difficult to explain, but..." "Well, whether you go on business or not is your affair, I do not want to know. The only important thing, in my eyes, is that you should not be going there simply for the pleasure of spending your evening in such company--cocottes, generals, usurers! If that were the case I should despise and laugh at you. There are terribly few honest people here, and hardly any whom one can respect, although people put on airs--Varia especially! Have you noticed, prince, how many adventurers there are nowadays? Especially here, in our dear Russia. How it has happened I never can understand. There used to be a certain amount of solidity in all things, but now what happens? Everything is exposed to the public gaze, veils are thrown back, every wound is probed by careless fingers. We are for ever present at an orgy of scandalous revelations. Parents blush when by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 85 they remember their old-fashioned morality. At Moscow lately a father was heard urging his son to stop at nothing--at nothing, mind you!--to get money! The press seized upon the story, of course, and now it is public property. Look at my father, the general! See what he is, and yet, I assure you, he is an honest man! Only ... he drinks too much, and his morals are not all we could desire. Yes, that's true! I pity him, to tell the truth, but I dare not say so, because everybody would laugh at me--but I do pity him! And who are the really clever men, after all? Money- grubbers, every one of them, from the first to the last. Hippolyte finds excuses for money-lending, and says it is a necessity. He talks about the economic movement, and the ebb and flow of capital; the devil knows what he means. It makes me angry to hear him talk so, but he is soured by his troubles. Just imagine-the general keeps his mother-but she lends him money! She lends it for a week or ten days at very high interest! Isn't it disgusting? And then, you would hardly believe it, but my mother-- Nina Alexandrovna--helps Hippolyte in all sorts of ways, sends him money and clothes. She even goes as far as helping the children, through Hippolyte, because their mother cares nothing about them, and Varia does the same." "Well, just now you said there were no honest nor good people about, that there were only money-grubbers--and here they are quite close at hand, these honest and good people, your mother and Varia! I think there is a good deal of moral strength in helping people in suchcircum stances." "Varia does it from pride, and likes showing off, and giving herself airs. As to my mother, I really do admire her--yes, and honour her. Hippolyte, hardened as he is, feels it. He laughed at first, and thought it vulgar of her--but now, he is sometimes quite touched and overcome by her kindness. H'm! You call that being strong and good? I will remember that! Gania knows nothing about it. He would say that it was encouraging vice." "Ah, Gania knows nothing about it? It seems there are many things that Gania does not know," exclaimed the prince, as he considered Colia's last words. "Do you know, I like you very much indeed, prince? I shall never forget about this afternoon." "I like you too, Colia." "Listen to me! You are going to live here, are you not?" said Colia. "I mean to get something to do directly, and earn money. Then shall we three live together? You, and I, and Hippolyte? We will hire a flat, and let the general come and visit us. What do you say?" "It would be very pleasant," returned the prince. "But we must see. I am really rather worried just now. What! are we there already? Is that the house? What a long flight of steps! And there's a porter! Well, Colia I don't know what will come of it all." The prince seemed quite distracted for the moment. "You must tell me all about it tomorrow! Don't be afraid. I wish you success; we agree so entirely I that can do so, although I do not understand why you are here. Good-bye!" cried Colia excitedly. "Now I will rush back and tell Hippolyte all about our plans and proposals! But as to your getting in--don't be in the least afraid. You will see her. She is so original about everything. It's the first floor. The porter will show you." XIII. THE prince was very nervous as he reached the outer door; but he did his best to encourage himself with the reflection that the worst thing that could happen to him would be that he would not be received, or, perhaps, received, then laughed at for coming. But there was another question, which terrified him considerably, and that was: what was he going to do when by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 86 he DID get in? And to this question he could fashion no satisfactory reply. If only he could find an opportunity of coming close up to Nastasia Philipovna and saying to her: "Don't ruin yourself by marrying this man. He does not love you, he only loves your money. He told me so himself, and so did Aglaya Ivanovna, and I have come on purpose to warn you"--but even that did not seem quite a legitimate or practicable thing to do. Then, again, there was another delicate question, to which he could not find an answer; dared not, in fact, think of it; but at the very idea of which he trembled and blushed. However, in spite of all his fears and heart-quakings he went in, and asked for Nastasia Philipovna. Nastasia occupied a medium-sized, but distinctly tasteful, flat, beautifully furnished and arranged. At one period of these five years of Petersburg life, Totski had certainly not spared his expenditure upon her. He had calculated upon her eventual love, and tried to tempt her with a lavish outlay upon comforts and luxuries, knowing too well how easily the heart accustoms itself to comforts, and how difficult it is to tear one's self away from luxuries which have become habitual and, little by little, indispensable. Nastasia did not reject all this, she even loved her comforts and luxuries, but, strangely enough, never became, in the least degree, dependent upon them, and always gave the impression that she could do just as well without them. In fact, she went so far as to inform Totski on several occasions that such was the case, which the latter gentleman considered a very unpleasant communication indeed. But, of late, Totski had observed many strange and original features and characteristics in Nastasia, which he had neither known nor reckoned upon in former times, and some of these fascinated him, even now, in spite of the fact that all his old calculations with regard to her were long ago cast to the winds. A maid opened the door for the prince (Nastasia's servants were all females) and, to his surprise, received his request to announce him to her mistress without any astonishment. Neither his dirty boots, nor his wide-brimmed hat, nor his sleeveless cloak, nor his evident confusion of manner, produced the least impression upon her. She helped him off with his cloak, and begged him to wait a moment in the ante-room while she announced him. The company assembled at Nastasia Philipovna's consisted of none but her most intimate friends, and formed a very small party in comparison with her usual gatherings on this anniversary. In the first place there were present Totski, and General Epanchin. They were both highly amiable, but both appeared to be labouring under a half-hidden feeling of anxiety as to the result of Nastasia's deliberations with regard to Gania, which result was to be made public this evening. Then, of course, there was Gania who was by no means so amiable as his elders, but stood apart, gloomy, and miserable, and silent. He had determined not to bring Varia with him; but Nastasia had not even asked after her, though no sooner had he arrived than she had reminded him of the episode between himself and the prince. The general, who had heard nothing of it before, began to listen with some interest, while Gania, drily, but with perfect candour, went through the whole history, including the fact of his apology to the prince. He finished by declaring that the prince was a most extraordinary man, and goodness knows why he had been considered an idiot hitherto, for he was very far from being one. Nastasia listened to all this with great interest; but the conversation soon turned to Rogojin and his visit, and this theme proved of the greatest attraction to both Totski and the general. Ptitsin was able to afford some particulars as to Rogojin's conduct since the afternoon. He declared that he had been busy finding money for the latter ever since, and up to nine o'clock, Rogojin having declared that he must absolutely have a hundred thousand roubles by the evening. He added that Rogojin was drunk, of course; but that he thought the money would be forthcoming, for the excited and intoxicated rapture of the fellow by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 87 impelled him to give any interest or premium that was asked of him, and there were several others engaged in beating up the money, also. All this news was received by the company with somewhat gloomy interest. Nastasia was silent, and would not say what she thought about it. Gania was equally uncommunicative. The general seemed the most anxious of all, and decidedly uneasy. The present of pearls which he had prepared with so much joy in the morning had been accepted but coldly, and Nastasia had smiled rather disagreeably as she took it from him. Ferdishenko was the only person present in good spirits. Totski himself, who had the reputation of being a capital talker, and was usually the life and soul of these entertainments, was as silent as any on this occasion, and sat in a state of, for him, most uncommon perturbation. The rest of the guests (an old tutor or schoolmaster, goodness knows why invited; a young man, very timid, and shy and silent; a rather loud woman of about forty, apparently an actress; and a very pretty, well-dressed German lady who hardly said a word all the evening) not only had no gift for enlivening the proceedings, but hardly knew what to say for themselves when addressed. Under these circumstances the arrival of the prince came almost as a godsend. The announcement of his name gave rise to some surprise and to some smiles, especially when it became evident, from Nastasia's astonished look, that she had not thought of inviting him. But her astonishment once over, Nastasia showed such satisfaction that all prepared to greet the prince with cordial smiles of welcome. "Of course," remarked General Epanchin, "he does this out of pure innocence. It's a little dangerous, perhaps, to encourage this sort of freedom; but it is rather a good thing that he has arrived just at this moment. He may enliven us a little with his originalities." "Especially as he asked himself," said Ferdishenko. "What's that got to do with it?" asked the general, who loathed Ferdishenko. "Why, he must pay toll for his entrance," explained the latter. "H'm! Prince Muishkin is not Ferdishenko," said the general, impatiently. This worthy gentleman could never quite reconcile himself to the idea of meeting Ferdishenko in society, and on an equal footing. "Oh general, spare Ferdishenko!" replied the other, smiling. "I have special privileges." "What do you mean by special privileges?" "Once before I had the honour of stating them to the company. I will repeat the explanation to-day for your excellency's benefit. You see, excellency, all the world is witty and clever except myself. I am neither. As a kind of compensation I am allowed to tell the truth, for it is a well-known fact that only stupid people tell 'the truth. Added to this, I am a spiteful man, just because I am not clever. If I am offended or injured I bear it quite patiently until the man injuring me meets with some misfortune. Then I remember, and take my revenge. I return the injury sevenfold, as Ivan Petrovitch Ptitsin says. (Of course he never does so himself.) Excellency, no doubt you recollect Kryloff's fable, 'The Lion and the Ass'? Well now, that's you and I. That fable was written precisely for us." "You seem to be talking nonsense again, Ferdishenko," growled the general. "What is the matter, excellency? I know how to keep my place. When I said just now that we, you and I, were by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 88 the lion and the ass of Kryloff's fable, of course it is understood that I take the role of the ass. Your excellency is the lion of which the fable remarks: 'A mighty lion, terror of the woods, Was shorn of his great prowess by old age.' And I, your excellency, am the ass." "I am of your opinion on that last point," said Ivan Fedorovitch, with ill-concealed irritation. All this was no doubt extremely coarse, and moreover it was premeditated, but after all Ferdishenko had persuaded everyone to accept him as a buffoon. "If I am admitted and tolerated here," he had said one day, "it is simply because I talk in this way. How can anyone possibly receive such a man as I am? I quite understand. Now, could I, a Ferdishenko, be allowed to sit shoulder to shoulder with a clever man like Afanasy Ivanovitch? There is one explanation, only one. I am given the position because it is so entirely inconceivable!" But these vulgarities seemed to please Nastasia Philipovna, although too often they were both rude and offensive. Those who wished to go to her house were forced to put up with Ferdishenko. Possibly the latter was not mistaken in imagining that he was received simply in order to annoy Totski, who disliked him extremely. Gania also was often made the butt of the jester's sarcasms, who used this method of keeping in Nastasia Philipovna's good graces. "The prince will begin by singing us a fashionable ditty," remarked Ferdishenko, and looked at the mistress of the house, to see what she would say. "I don't think so, Ferdishenko; please be quiet," answered Nastasia Philipovna dryly. "A-ah! if he is to be under special patronage, I withdraw my claws." But Nastasia Philipovna had now risen and advanced to meet the prince. "I was so sorry to have forgotten to ask you to come, when I saw you," she said, "and I am delighted to be able to thank you personally now, and to express my pleasure at your resolution." So saying she gazed into his eyes, longing to see whether she could make any guess as to the explanation of his motive in coming to her house. The prince would very likely have made some reply to her kind words, but he was so dazzled by her appearance that he could not speak. Nastasia noticed this with satisfaction. She was in full dress this evening; and her appearance was certainly calculated to impress all beholders. She took his hand and led him towards her other guests. But just before they reached the drawing-room door, the prince stopped her, and hurriedly and in great agitation whispered to her: "You are altogether perfection; even your pallor and thinness are perfect; one could not wish you otherwise. I did so wish to come and see you. I--forgive me, please--" "Don't apologize," said Nastasia, laughing; "you spoil the whole originality of the thing. I think what they say about you must be true, that you are so original.--So you think me perfection, do you?" "Yes." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 89 "H'm! Well, you may be a good reader of riddles but you are wrong THERE, at all events. I'll remind you of this, tonight." Nastasia introduced the prince to her guests, to most of whom he was already known. Totski immediately made some amiable remark. Al seemed to brighten up at once, and the conversation became general. Nastasia made the prince sit down next to herself. "Dear me, there's nothing so very curious about the prince dropping in, after all," remarked Ferdishenko. "It's quite a clear case," said the hitherto silent Gania. I have watched the prince almost all day, ever since the moment when he first saw Nastasia Philipovna's portrait, at General Epanchin's. I remember thinking at the time what I am now pretty sure of; and what, I may say in passing, the prince confessed to myself." Gania said all this perfectly seriously, and without the slightest appearance of joking; indeed, he seemed strangely gloomy. "I did not confess anything to you," said the prince, blushing. "I only answered your question." "Bravo! That's frank, at any rate!" shouted Ferdishenko, and there was general laughter. "Oh prince, prince! I never should have thought it of you;" said General Epanchin. "And I imagined you a philosopher! Oh, you silent fellows!" "Judging from the fact that the prince blushed at this innocent joke, like a young girl, I should think that he must, as an honourable man, harbour the noblest intentions," said the old toothless schoolmaster, most unexpectedly; he had not so much as opened his mouth before. This remark provoked general mirth, and the old fellow himself laughed loudest of the lot, but ended with a stupendous fit of coughing. Nastasia Philipovna, who loved originality and drollery of all kinds, was apparently very fond of this old man, and rang the bell for more tea to stop his coughing. It was now half-past ten o'clock. "Gentlemen, wouldn't you like a little champagne now?" she asked. "I have it all ready; it will cheer us up--do now--no ceremony!" This invitation to drink, couched, as it was, in such informal terms, came very strangely from Nastasia Philipovna. Her usual entertainments were not quite like this; there was more style about them. However, the wine was not refused; each guest took a glass excepting Gania, who drank nothing. It was extremely difficult to account for Nastasia's strange condition of mind, which became more evident each moment, and which none could avoid noticing. She took her glass, and vowed she would empty it three times that evening. She was hysterical, and laughed aloud every other minute with no apparent reason--the next moment relapsing into gloom and thoughtfulness. Some of her guests suspected that she must be ill; but concluded at last that she was expecting something, for she continued to look at her watch impatiently and unceasingly; she was most absent and strange. "You seem to be a little feverish tonight," said the actress. "Yes; I feel quite ill. I have been obliged to put on this shawl --I feel so cold," replied Nastasia. She certainly had grown very pale, and every now and then she tried to suppress a trembling in her limbs. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 90 "Had we not better allow our hostess to retire?" asked Totski of the general. "Not at all, gentlemen, not at all! Your presence is absolutely necessary to me tonight," said Nastasia, significantly. As most of those present were aware that this evening a certain very important decision was to be taken, these words of Nastasia Philipovna's appeared to be fraught with much hidden interest. The general and Totski exchanged looks; Gania fidgeted convulsively in his chair. "Let's play at some game!" suggested the actress. "I know a new and most delightful game, added Ferdishenko. "What is it?" asked the actress. "Well, when we tried it we were a party of people, like this, for instance; and somebody proposed that each of us, without leaving his place at the table, should relate something about himself. It had to be something that he really and honestly considered the very worst action he had ever committed in his life. But he was to be honest--that was the chief point! He wasn't to be allowed to lie." "What an extraordinary idea!" said the general. "That's the beauty of it, general!" "It's a funny notion," said Totski, "and yet quite natural--it's only a new way of boasting." "Perhaps that is just what was so fascinating about it." "Why, it would be a game to cry over--not to laugh at!" said the actress. "Did it succeed?" asked Nastasia Philipovna. "Come, let's try it, let's try it; we really are not quite so jolly as we might be-- let's try it! We may like it; it's original, at all events!" "Yes," said Ferdishenko; "it's a good idea--come along--the men begin. Of course no one need tell a story if he prefers to be disobliging. We must draw lots! Throw your slips of paper, gentlemen, into this hat, and the prince shall draw for turns. It's a very simple game; all you have to do is to tell the story of the worst action of your life. It's as simple as anything. I'll prompt anyone who forgets the rules!" No one liked the idea much. Some smiled, some frowned some objected, but faintly, not wishing to oppose Nastasia's wishes; for this new idea seemed to be rather well received by her. She was still in an excited, hysterical state, laughing convulsively at nothing and everything. Her eyes were blazing, and her cheeks showed two bright red spots against the white. The melancholy appearance of some of her guests seemed to add to her sarcastic humour, and perhaps the very cynicism and cruelty of the game proposed by Ferdishenko pleased her. At all events she was attracted by the idea, and gradually her guests came round to her side; the thing was original, at least, and might turn out to be amusing. "And supposing it's something that one--one can't speak about before ladies?" asked the timid and silent young man. "Why, then of course, you won't say anything about it. As if there are not plenty of sins to your score without the need of those!" said Ferdishenko. "But I really don't know which of my actions is the worst," said the lively actress. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 91 "Ladies are exempted if they like." "And how are you to know that one isn't lying? And if one lies the whole point of the game is lost," said Gania. "Oh, but think how delightful to hear how one's friends lie! Besides you needn't be afraid, Gania; everybody knows what your worst action is without the need of any lying on your part. Only think, gentlemen,"--and Ferdishenko here grew quite enthusiastic, "only think with what eyes we shall observe one another tomorrow, after our tales have been told!" "But surely this is a joke, Nastasia Philipovna?" asked Totski. "You don't really mean us to play this game." "Whoever is afraid of wolves had better not go into the wood," said Nastasia, smiling. "But, pardon me, Mr. Ferdishenko, is it possible to make a game out of this kind of thing?" persisted Totski, growing more and more uneasy. "I assure you it can't be a success." "And why not? Why, the last time I simply told straight off about how I stole three roubles." "Perhaps so; but it is hardly possible that you told it so that it seemed like truth, or so that you were believed. And, as Gavrila Ardalionovitch has said, the least suggestion of a falsehood takes all point out of the game. It seems to me that sincerity, on the other hand, is only possible if combined with a kind of bad taste that would be utterly out of place here." "How subtle you are, Afanasy Ivanovitch! You astonish me," cried Ferdishenko. "You will remark, gentleman, that in saying that I could not recount the story of my theft so as to be believed, Afanasy Ivanovitch has very ingeniously implied that I am not capable of thieving--(it would have been bad taste to say so openly); and all the time he is probably firmly convinced, in his own mind, that I am very well capable of it! But now, gentlemen, to business! Put in your slips, ladies and gentlemen--is yours in, Mr. Totski? So--then we are all ready; now prince, draw, please." The prince silently put his hand into the hat, and drew the names. Ferdishenko was first, then Ptitsin, then the general, Totski next, his own fifth, then Gania, and so on; the ladies did not draw. "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" cried Ferdishenko. "I did so hope the prince would come out first, and then the general. Well, gentlemen, I suppose I must set a good example! What vexes me much is that I am such an insignificant creature that it matters nothing to anybody whether I have done bad actions or not! Besides, which am I to choose? It's an embarras de richesse. Shall I tell how I became a thief on one occasion only, to convince Afanasy Ivanovitch that it is possible to steal without being a thief?" "Do go on, Ferdishenko, and don't make unnecessary preface, or you'll never finish," said Nastasia Philipovna. All observed how irritable and cross she had become since her last burst of laughter; but none the less obstinately did she stick to her absurd whim about this new game. Totski sat looking miserable enough. The general lingered over his champagne, and seemed to be thinking of some story for the time when his turn should come. XIV. "I have no wit, Nastasia Philipovna," began Ferdishenko, "and therefore I talk too much, perhaps. Were I as witty, now, as Mr. Totski or the general, I should probably have sat silent all the evening, as they have. Now, prince, what do you think?--are there not far more thieves than honest men in this world? Don't you think we may say there does not exist a single person so honest that he has never stolen anything whatever in his life?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 92 "What a silly idea," said the actress. "Of course it is not the case. I have never stolen anything, for one." "H'm! very well, Daria Alexeyevna; you have not stolen anything-- agreed. But how about the prince, now--look how he is blushing!" "I think you are partially right, but you exaggerate," said the prince, who had certainly blushed up, of a sudden, for some reason or other. "Ferdishenko--either tell us your story, or be quiet, and mind your own business. You exhaust all patience," cuttingly and irritably remarked Nastasia Philipovna. "Immediately, immediately! As for my story, gentlemen, it is too stupid and absurd to tell you. "I assure you I am not a thief, and yet I have stolen; I cannot explain why. It was at Semeon Ivanovitch Ishenka's country house, one Sunday. He had a dinner party. After dinner the men stayed at the table over their wine. It struck me to ask the daughter of the house to play something on the piano; so I passed through the corner room to join the ladies. In that room, on Maria Ivanovna's writing-table, I observed a three-rouble note. She must have taken it out for some purpose, and left it lying there. There was no one about. I took up the note and put it in my pocket; why, I can't say. I don't know what possessed me to do it, but it was done, and I went quickly back to the dining-room and reseated myself at the dinner-table. I sat and waited there in a great state of excitement. I talked hard, and told lots of stories, and laughed like mad; then I joined the ladies. "In half an hour or so the loss was discovered, and the servants were being put under examination. Daria, the housemaid was suspected. I exhibited the greatest interest and sympathy, and I remember that poor Daria quite lost her head, and that I began assuring her, before everyone, that I would guarantee her forgiveness on the part of her mistress, if she would confess her guilt. They all stared at the girl, and I remember a wonderful attraction in the reflection that here was I sermonizing away, with the money in my own pocket all the while. I went and spent the three roubles that very evening at a restaurant. I went in and asked for a bottle of Lafite, and drank it up; I wanted to be rid of the money. "I did not feel much remorse either then or afterwards; but I would not repeat the performance--believe it or not as you please. There--that's all." "Only, of course that's not nearly your worst action," said the actress, with evident dislike in her face. "That was a psychological phenomenon, not an action," remarked Totski. "And what about the maid?" asked Nastasia Philipovna, with undisguised contempt. "Oh, she was turned out next day, of course. It's a very strict household, there!" "And you allowed it?" "I should think so, rather! I was not going to return and confess next day," laughed Ferdishenko, who seemed a little surprised at the disagreeable impression which his story had made on all parties. "How mean you were!" said Nastasia. "Bah! you wish to hear a man tell of his worst actions, and you expect the story to come out goody-goody! One's worst actions always are mean. We shall see what the general has to say for himself now. All is not gold that glitters, you know; and because a man keeps his carriage he need not be specially virtuous, I assure you, all sorts of people keep carriages. And by what means?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 93 In a word, Ferdishenko was very angry and rapidly forgetting himself; his whole face was drawn with passion. Strange as it may appear, he had expected much better success for his story. These little errors of taste on Ferdishenko's part occurred very frequently. Nastasia trembled with rage, and looked fixedly at him, whereupon he relapsed into alarmed silence. He realized that he had gone a little too far. "Had we not better end this game?" asked Totski. "It's my turn, but I plead exemption," said Ptitsin. "You don't care to oblige us?" asked Nastasia. "I cannot, I assure you. I confess I do not understand how anyone can play this game." "Then, general, it's your turn," continued Nastasia Philipovna, "and if you refuse, the whole game will fall through, which will disappoint me very much, for I was looking forward to relating a certain 'page of my own life.' I am only waiting for you and Afanasy Ivanovitch to have your turns, for I require the support of your example," she added, smiling. "Oh, if you put it in that way " cried the general, excitedly, "I'm ready to tell the whole story of my life, but I must confess that I prepared a little story in anticipation of my turn." Nastasia smiled amiably at him; but evidently her depression and irritability were increasing with every moment. Totski was dreadfully alarmed to hear her promise a revelation out of her own life. "I, like everyone else," began the general, "have committed certain not altogether graceful actions, so to speak, during the course of my life. But the strangest thing of all in my case is, that I should consider the little anecdote which I am now about to give you as a confession of the worst of my 'bad actions.' It is thirty-five years since it all happened, and yet I cannot to this very day recall the circumstances without, as it were, a sudden pang at the heart. "It was a silly affair--I was an ensign at the time. You know ensigns--their blood is boiling water, their circumstances generally penurious. Well, I had a servant Nikifor who used to do everything for me in my quarters, economized and managed for me, and even laid hands on anything he could find (belonging to other people), in order to augment our household goods; but a faithful, honest fellow all the same. "I was strict, but just by nature. At that time we were stationed in a small town. I was quartered at an old widow's house, a lieutenant's widow of eighty years of age. She lived in a wretched little wooden house, and had not even a servant, so poor was she. "Her relations had all died off--her husband was dead and buried forty years since; and a niece, who had lived with her and bullied her up to three years ago, was dead too; so that she was quite alone. "Well, I was precious dull with her, especially as she was so childish that there was nothing to be got out of her. Eventually, she stole a fowl of mine; the business is a mystery to this day; but it could have been no one but herself. I requested to be quartered somewhere else, and was shifted to the other end of the town, to the house of a merchant with a large family, and a long beard, as I remember him. Nikifor and I were delighted to go; but the old lady was not pleased at our departure. "Well, a day or two afterwards, when I returned from drill, Nikifor says to me: 'We oughtn't to have left our tureen with the old lady, I've nothing to serve the soup in.' "I asked how it came about that the tureen had been left. Nikifor explained that the old lady refused to give it by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 94 up, because, she said, we had broken her bowl, and she must have our tureen in place of it; she had declared that I had so arranged the matter with herself. "This baseness on her part of course aroused my young blood to fever heat; I jumped up, and away I flew. "I arrived at the old woman's house beside myself. She was sitting in a corner all alone, leaning her face on her hand. I fell on her like a clap of thunder. 'You old wretch!' I yelled and all that sort of thing, in real Russian style. Well, when I began cursing at her, a strange thing happened. I looked at her, and she stared back with her eyes starting out of her head, but she did not say a word. She seemed to sway about as she sat, and looked and looked at me in the strangest way. Well, I soon stopped swearing and looked closer at her, asked her questions, but not a word could I get out of her. The flies were buzzing about the room and only this sound broke the silence; the sun was setting outside; I didn't know what to make of it, so I went away. "Before I reached home I was met and summoned to the major's, so that it was some while before I actually got there. When I came in, Nikifor met me. 'Have you heard, sir, that our old lady is dead?' 'DEAD, when?' 'Oh, an hour and a half ago.' That meant nothing more nor less than that she was dying at the moment when I pounced on her and began abusing her. "This produced a great effect upon me. I used to dream of the poor old woman at nights. I really am not superstitious, but two days after, I went to her funeral, and as time went on I thought more and more about her. I said to myself, 'This woman, this human being, lived to a great age. She had children, a husband and family, friends and relations; her household was busy and cheerful; she was surrounded by smiling faces; and then suddenly they are gone, and she is left alone like a solitary fly ... like a fly, cursed with the burden of her age. At last, God calls her to Himself. At sunset, on a lovely summer's evening, my little old woman passes away--a thought, you will notice, which offers much food for reflection--and behold! instead of tears and prayers to start her on her last journey, she has insults and jeers from a young ensign, who stands before her with his hands in his pockets, making a terrible row about a soup tureen!' Of course I was to blame, and even now that I have time to look back at it calmly, I pity the poor old thing no less. I repeat that I wonder at myself, for after all I was not really responsible. Why did she take it into her head to die at that moment? But the more I thought of it, the more I felt the weight of it upon my mind; and I never got quite rid of the impression until I put a couple of old women into an almshouse and kept them there at my own expense. There, that's all. I repeat I dare say I have committed many a grievous sin in my day; but I cannot help always looking back upon this as the worst action I have ever perpetrated." "H'm! and instead of a bad action, your excellency has detailed one of your noblest deeds," said Ferdishenko. "Ferdishenko is 'done.'" "Dear me, general," said Nastasia Philipovna, absently, "I really never imagined you had such a good heart." The general laughed with great satisfaction, and applied himself once more to the champagne. It was now Totski's turn, and his story was awaited with great curiosity--while all eyes turned on Nastasia Philipovna, as though anticipating that his revelation must be connected somehow with her. Nastasia, during the whole of his story, pulled at the lace trimming of her sleeve, and never once glanced at the speaker. Totski was a handsome man, rather stout, with a very polite and dignified manner. He was always well dressed, and his linen was exquisite. He had plump white hands, and wore a magnificent diamond ring on one finger. "What simplifies the duty before me considerably, in my opinion," he began, "is that I am bound to recall and relate the very worst action of my life. In such circumstances there can, of course, be no doubt. One's conscience very soon informs one what is the proper narrative to tell. I admit, that among the many silly and thoughtless actions of my life, the memory of one comes prominently forward and reminds me that it lay long like a stone on my heart. Some twenty years since, I paid a visit to Platon Ordintzeff at his country-house. He by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 95 had just been elected marshal of the nobility, and had come there with his young wife for the winter holidays. Anfisa Alexeyevna's birthday came off just then, too, and there were two balls arranged. At that time Dumas-fils' beautiful work, La Dame aux Camelias--a novel which I consider imperishable--had just come into fashion. In the provinces all the ladies were in raptures over it, those who had read it, at least. Camellias were all the fashion. Everyone inquired for them, everybody wanted them; and a grand lot of camellias are to be got in a country town--as you all know--and two balls to provide for! "Poor Peter Volhofskoi was desperately in love with Anfisa Alexeyevna. I don't know whether there was anything--I mean I don't know whether he could possibly have indulged in any hope. The poor fellow was beside himself to get her a bouquet of camellias. Countess Sotski and Sophia Bespalova, as everyone knew, were coming with white camellia bouquets. Anfisa wished for red ones, for effect. Well, her husband Platon was driven desperate to find some. And the day before the ball, Anfisa's rival snapped up the only red camellias to be had in the place, from under Platon's nose, and Platon--wretched man--was done for. Now if Peter had only been able to step in at this moment with a red bouquet, his little hopes might have made gigantic strides. A woman's gratitude under such circumstances would have been boundless--but it was practically an impossibility. "The night before the ball I met Peter, looking radiant. 'What is it?' I ask. 'I've found them, Eureka!" 'No! where, where?' 'At Ekshaisk (a little town fifteen miles off) there's a rich old merchant, who keeps a lot of canaries, has no children, and he and his wife are devoted to flowers. He's got some camellias.' 'And what if he won't let you have them?' 'I'll go on my knees and implore till I get them. I won't go away.' 'When shall you start?' 'Tomorrow morning at five o'clock.' 'Go on,' I said, 'and good luck to you.' "I was glad for the poor fellow, and went home. But an idea got hold of me somehow. I don't know how. It was nearly two in the morning. I rang the bell and ordered the coachman to be waked up and sent to me. He came. I gave him a tip of fifteen roubles, and told him to get the carriage ready at once. In half an hour it was at the door. I got in and off we went. "By five I drew up at the Ekshaisky inn. I waited there till dawn, and soon after six I was off, and at the old merchant Trepalaf's. "'Camellias!' I said, 'father, save me, save me, let me have some camellias!' He was a tall, grey old man--a terrible-looking old gentleman. 'Not a bit of it,' he says. 'I won't.' Down I went on my knees. 'Don't say so, don't--think what you're doing!' I cried; 'it's a matter of life and death!' 'If that's the case, take them,' says he. So up I get, and cut such a bouquet of red camellias! He had a whole greenhouse full of them--lovely ones. The old fellow sighs. I pull out a hundred roubles. 'No, no!' says he, 'don't insult me that way.' 'Oh, if that's the case, give it to the village hospital,' I say. 'Ah,' he says, 'that's quite a different matter; that's good of you and generous. I'll pay it in there for you with pleasure.' I liked that old fellow, Russian to the core, de la vraie souche. I went home in raptures, but took another road in order to avoid Peter. Immediately on arriving I sent up the bouquet for Anfisa to see when she awoke. "You may imagine her ecstasy, her gratitude. The wretched Platon, who had almost died since yesterday of the reproaches showered upon him, wept on my shoulder. Of course poor Peter had no chance after this. "I thought he would cut my throat at first, and went about armed ready to meet him. But he took it differently; he fainted, and had brain fever and convulsions. A month after, when he had hardly recovered, he went off to the Crimea, and there he was shot. "I assure you this business left me no peace for many a long year. Why did I do it? I was not in love with her myself; I'm afraid it was simply mischief--pure 'cussedness' on my part. "If I hadn't seized that bouquet from under his nose he might have been alive now, and a happy man. He by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 96 might have been successful in life, and never have gone to fight the Turks." Totski ended his tale with the same dignity that had characterized its commencement. Nastasia Philipovna's eyes were flashing in a most unmistakable way, now; and her lips were all a-quiver by the time Totski finished his story. All present watched both of them with curiosity. "You were right, Totski," said Nastasia, "it is a dull game and a stupid one. I'll just tell my story, as I promised, and then we'll play cards." "Yes, but let's have the story first!" cried the general. "Prince," said Nastasia Philipovna, unexpectedly turning to Muishkin, "here are my old friends, Totski and General Epanchin, who wish to marry me off. Tell me what you think. Shall I marry or not? As you decide, so shall it be." Totski grew white as a sheet. The general was struck dumb. All present started and listened intently. Gania sat rooted to his chair. "Marry whom?" asked the prince, faintly. "Gavrila Ardalionovitch Ivolgin," said Nastasia, firmly and evenly. There were a few seconds of dead silence. The prince tried to speak, but could not form his words; a great weight seemed to lie upon his breast and suffocate him. "N-no! don't marry him!" he whispered at last, drawing his breath with an effort. "So be it, then. Gavrila Ardalionovitch," she spoke solemnly and forcibly, "you hear the prince's decision? Take it as my decision; and let that be the end of the matter for good and all." "Nastasia Philipovna!" cried Totski, in a quaking voice. "Nastasia Philipovna!" said the general, in persuasive but agitated tones. Everyone in the room fidgeted in their places, and waited to see what was coming next. "Well, gentlemen!" she continued, gazing around in apparent astonishment; "what do you all look so alarmed about? Why are you so upset?" "But--recollect, Nastasia Philipovna." stammered Totski, "you gave a promise, quite a free one, and--and you might have spared us this. I am confused and bewildered, I know; but, in a word, at such a moment, and before company, and all so-so-irregular, finishing off a game with a serious matter like this, a matter of honour, and of heart, and--" "I don't follow you, Afanasy Ivanovitch; you are losing your head. In the first place, what do you mean by 'before company'? Isn't the company good enough for you? And what's all that about 'a game'? I wished to tell my little story, and I told it! Don't you like it? You heard what I said to the prince? 'As you decide, so it shall by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 97 be!' If he had said 'yes,' I should have given my consent! But he said 'no,' so I refused. Here was my whole life hanging on his one word! Surely I was serious enough?" "The prince! What on earth has the prince got to do with it? Who the deuce is the prince?" cried the general, who could conceal his wrath no longer. "The prince has this to do with it--that I see in him. for the first time in all my life, a man endowed with real truthfulness of spirit, and I trust him. He trusted me at first sight, and I trust him!" "It only remains for me, then, to thank Nastasia Philipovna for the great delicacy with which she has treated me," said Gania, as pale as death, and with quivering lips. "That is my plain duty, of course; but the prince--what has he to do in the matter?" "I see what you are driving at," said Nastasia Philipovna. "You imply that the prince is after the seventy-five thousand roubles --I quite understand you. Mr. Totski, I forgot to say, 'Take your seventy-five thousand roubles'--I don't want them. I let you go free for nothing take your freedom! You must need it. Nine years and three months' captivity is enough for anybody. Tomorrow I shall start afresh--today I am a free agent for the first time in my life. "General, you must take your pearls back, too--give them to your wife--here they are! Tomorrow I shall leave this flat altogether, and then there'll be no more of these pleasant little social gatherings, ladies and gentlemen." So saying, she scornfully rose from her seat as though to depart. "Nastasia Philipovna! Nastasia Philipovna!" The words burst involuntarily from every mouth. All present started up in bewildered excitement; all surrounded her; all had listened uneasily to her wild, disconnected sentences. All felt that something had happened, something had gone very far wrong indeed, but no one could make head or tail of the matter. At this moment there was a furious ring at the bell, and a great knock at the door--exactly similar to the one which had startled the company at Gania's house in the afternoon. "Ah, ah! here's the climax at last, at half-past twelve!" cried Nastasia Philipovna. "Sit down, gentlemen, I beg you. Something is about to happen." So saying, she reseated herself; a strange smile played on her lips. She sat quite still, but watched the door in a fever of impatience. "Rogojin and his hundred thousand roubles, no doubt of it," muttered Ptitsin to himself. XV. Katia, the maid-servant, made her appearance, terribly frightened. "Goodness knows what it means, ma'am," she said. "There is a whole collection of men come--all tipsy--and want to see you. They say that 'it's Rogojin, and she knows all about it.'" "It's all right, Katia, let them all in at once." "Surely not ALL, ma'am? They seem so disorderly--it's dreadful to see them." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 98 "Yes ALL, Katia, all--every one of them. Let them in, or they'll come in whether you like or no. Listen! what a noise they are making! Perhaps you are offended, gentlemen, that I should receive such guests in your presence? I am very sorry, and ask your forgiveness, but it cannot be helped--and I should be very grateful if you could all stay and witness this climax. However, just as you please, of course." The guests exchanged glances; they were annoyed and bewildered by the episode; but it was clear enough that all this had been pre- arranged and expected by Nastasia Philipovna, and that there was no use in trying to stop her now--for she was little short of insane. Besides, they were naturally inquisitive to see what was to happen. There was nobody who would be likely to feel much alarm. There were but two ladies present; one of whom was the lively actress, who was not easily frightened, and the other the silent German beauty who, it turned out, did not understand a word of Russian, and seemed to be as stupid as she was lovely. Her acquaintances invited her to their "At Homes" because she was so decorative. She was exhibited to their guests like a valuable picture, or vase, or statue, or firescreen. As for the men, Ptitsin was one of Rogojin's friends; Ferdishenko was as much at home as a fish in the sea, Gania, not yet recovered from his amazement, appeared to be chained to a pillory. The old professor did not in the least understand what was happening; but when he noticed how extremely agitated the mistress of the house, and her friends, seemed, he nearly wept, and trembled with fright: but he would rather have died than leave Nastasia Philipovna at such a crisis, for he loved her as if she were his own granddaughter. Afanasy Ivanovitch greatly disliked having anything to do with the affair, but he was too much interested to leave, in spite of the mad turn things had taken; and a few words that had dropped from the lips of Nastasia puzzled him so much, that he felt he could not go without an explanation. He resolved therefore, to see it out, and to adopt the attitude of silent spectator, as most suited to his dignity. Genera Epanchin alone determined to depart. He was annoyed at the manner in which his gift had been returned, an though he had condescended, under the influence of passion, to place himself on a level with Ptitsin and Ferdishenko, his self-respect and sense of duty now returned together with a consciousness of what was due to his social rank and official importance. In short, he plainly showed his conviction that a man in his position could have nothing to do with Rogojin and his companions. But Nastasia interrupted him at his first words. "Ah, general!" she cried, "I was forgetting! If I had only foreseen this unpleasantness! I won't insist on keeping you against your will, although I should have liked you to be beside me now. In any case, I am most grateful to you for your visit, and flattering attention . . . but if you are afraid . . ." "Excuse me, Nastasia Philipovna," interrupted the general, with chivalric generosity. "To whom are you speaking? I have remained until now simply because of my devotion to you, and as for danger, I am only afraid that the carpets may be ruined, and the furniture smashed! . . . You should shut the door on the lot, in my opinion. But I confess that I am extremely curious to see how it ends." "Rogojin!" announced Ferdishenko. "What do you think about it?" said the general in a low voice to Totski. "Is she mad? I mean mad in the medical sense of the word .. . . eh?" "I've always said she was predisposed to it," whispered Afanasy Ivanovitch slyly. "Perhaps it is a fever!" Since their visit to Gania's home, Rogojin's followers had been increased by two new recruits--a dissolute old man, the hero of some ancient scandal, and a retired sub-lieutenant. A laughable story was told of the former. He possessed, it was said, a set of false teeth, and one day when he wanted money for a drinking orgy, he pawned them, and was never able to reclaim them! The officer appeared to be a rival of the gentleman who was so proud of his fists. He was known to none of Rogojin's followers, but as they passed by the Nevsky, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 99 where he stood begging, he had joined their ranks. His claim for the charity he desired seemed based on the fact that in the days of his prosperity he had given away as much as fifteen roubles at a time. The rivals seemed more than a little jealous of one another. The athlete appeared injured at the admission of the "beggar" into the company. By nature taciturn, he now merely growled occasionally like a bear, and glared contemptuously upon the "beggar," who, being somewhat of a man of the world, and a diplomatist, tried to insinuate himself into the bear's good graces. He was a much smaller man than the athlete, and doubtless was conscious that he must tread warily. Gently and without argument he alluded to the advantages of the English style in boxing, and showed himself a firm believer in Western institutions. The athlete's lips curled disdainfully, and without honouring his adversary with a formal denial, he exhibited, as if by accident, that peculiarly Russian object--an enormous fist, clenched, muscular, and covered with red hairs! The sight of this pre-eminently national attribute was enough to convince anybody, without words, that it was a serious matter for those who should happen to come into contact with it. None of the band were very drunk, for the leader had kept his intended visit to Nastasia in view all day, and had done his best to prevent his followers from drinking too much. He was sober himself, but the excitement of this chaotic day--the strangest day of his life--had affected him so that he was in a dazed, wild condition, which almost resembled drunkenness. He had kept but one idea before him all day, and for that he had worked in an agony of anxiety and a fever of suspense. His lieutenants had worked so hard from five o'clock until eleven, that they actually had collected a hundred thousand roubles for him, but at such terrific expense, that the rate of interest was only mentioned among them in whispers and with bated breath. As before, Rogojin walked in advance of his troop, who followed him with mingled self-assertion and timidity. They were specially frightened of Nastasia Philipovna herself, for some reason. Many of them expected to be thrown downstairs at once, without further ceremony, the elegant arid irresistible Zaleshoff among them. But the party led by the athlete, without openly showing their hostile intentions, silently nursed contempt and even hatred for Nastasia Philipovna, and marched into her house as they would have marched into an enemy's fortress. Arrived there, the luxury of the rooms seemed to inspire them with a kind of respect, not unmixed with alarm. So many things were entirely new to their experience--the choice furniture, the pictures, the great statue of Venus. They followed their chief into the salon, however, with a kind of impudent curiosity. There, the sight of General Epanchin among the guests, caused many of them to beat a hasty retreat into the adjoining room, the "boxer" and "beggar" being among the first to go. A few only, of whom Lebedeff made one, stood their ground; he had contrived to walk side by side with Rogojin, for he quite understood the importance of a man who had a fortune of a million odd roubles, and who at this moment carried a hundred thousand in his hand. It may be added that the whole company, not excepting Lebedeff, had the vaguest idea of the extent of their powers, and of how far they could safely go. At some moments Lebedeff was sure that right was on their side; at others he tried uneasily to remember various cheering and reassuring articles of the Civil Code. Rogojin, when he stepped into the room, and his eyes fell upon Nastasia, stopped short, grew white as a sheet, and stood staring; it was clear that his heart was beating painfully. So he stood, gazing intently, but timidly, for a few seconds. Suddenly, as though bereft of his senses, he moved forward, staggering helplessly, towards the table. On his way he collided against Ptitsin's chair, and put his dirty foot on the lace skirt of the silent lady's dress; but he neither apologized for this, nor even noticed it. On reaching the table, he placed upon it a strange-looking object, which he had carried with him into the drawing-room. This was a paper packet, some six or seven inches thick, and eight or nine in length, wrapped in an old newspaper, and tied round three or four times with string. Having placed this before her, he stood with drooped arms and head, as though awaiting his sentence. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 100 His costume was the same as it had been in the morning, except for a new silk handkerchief round his neck, bright green and red, fastened with a huge diamond pin, and an enormous diamond ring on his dirty forefinger. Lebedeff stood two or three paces behind his chief; and the rest of the band waited about near the door. The two maid-servants were both peeping in, frightened and amazed at this unusual and disorderly scene. "What is that?" asked Nastasia Philipovna, gazing intently at Rogojin, and indicating the paper packet. "A hundred thousand," replied the latter, almost in a whisper. "Oh! so he kept his word--there's a man for you! Well, sit down, please--take that chair. I shall have something to say to you presently. Who are all these with you? The same party? Let them come in and sit down. There's room on that sofa, there are some chairs and there's another sofa! Well, why don't they sit down?" Sure enough, some of the brave fellows entirely lost their heads at this point, and retreated into the next room. Others, however, took the hint and sat down, as far as they could from the table, however; feeling braver in proportion to their distance from Nastasia. Rogojin took the chair offered him, but he did not sit long; he soon stood up again, and did not reseat himself. Little by little he began to look around him and discern the other guests. Seeing Gania, he smiled venomously and muttered to himself, "Look at that!" He gazed at Totski and the general with no apparent confusion, and with very little curiosity. But when he observed that the prince was seated beside Nastasia Philipovna, he could not take his eyes off him for a long while, and was clearly amazed. He could not account for the prince's presence there. It was not in the least surprising that Rogojin should be, at this time, in a more or less delirious condition; for not to speak of the excitements of the day, he had spent the night before in the train, and had not slept more than a wink for forty-eight hours. "This, gentlemen, is a hundred thousand roubles," said Nastasia Philipovna, addressing the company in general, "here, in this dirty parcel. This afternoon Rogojin yelled, like a madman, that he would bring me a hundred thousand in the evening, and I have been waiting for him all the while. He was bargaining for me, you know; first he offered me eighteen thousand; then he rose to forty, and then to a hundred thousand. And he has kept his word, see! My goodness, how white he is! All this happened this afternoon, at Gania's. I had gone to pay his mother a visit--my future family, you know! And his sister said to my very face, surely somebody will turn this shameless creature out. After which she spat in her brother Gania's face--a girl of character, that!" "Nastasia Philipovna!" began the general, reproachfully. He was beginning to put his own interpretation on the affair. "Well, what, general? Not quite good form, eh? Oh, nonsense! Here have I been sitting in my box at the French theatre for the last five years like a statue of inaccessible virtue, and kept out of the way of all admirers, like a silly little idiot! Now, there's this man, who comes and pays down his hundred thousand on the table, before you all, in spite of my five years of innocence and proud virtue, and I dare be sworn he has his sledge outside waiting to carry me off. He values me at a hundred thousand! I see you are still angry with me, Gania! Why, surely you never really wished to take ME into your family? ME, Rogojin's mistress! What did the prince say just now?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 101 "I never said you were Rogojin's mistress--you are NOT!" said the prince, in trembling accents. "Nastasia Philipovna, dear soul!" cried the actress, impatiently, "do be calm, dear! If it annoys you so--all this--do go away and rest! Of course you would never go with this wretched fellow, in spite of his hundred thousand roubles! Take his money and kick him out of the house; that's the way to treat him and the likes of him! Upon my word, if it were my business, I'd soon clear them all out!" The actress was a kind-hearted woman, and highly impressionable. She was very angry now. "Don't be cross, Daria Alexeyevna!" laughed Nastasia. "I was not angry when I spoke; I wasn't reproaching Gania. I don't know how it was that I ever could have indulged the whim of entering an honest family like his. I saw his mother--and kissed her hand, too. I came and stirred up all that fuss, Gania, this afternoon, on purpose to see how much you could swallow--you surprised me, my friend--you did, indeed. Surely you could not marry a woman who accepts pearls like those you knew the general was going to give me, on the very eve of her marriage? And Rogojin! Why, in your own house and before your own brother and sister, he bargained with me! Yet you could come here and expect to be betrothed to me before you left the house! You almost brought your sister, too. Surely what Rogojin said about you is not really true: that you would crawl all the way to the other end of the town, on hands and knees, for three roubles?" "Yes, he would!" said Rogojin, quietly, but with an air of absolute conviction. "H'm! and he receives a good salary, I'm told. Well, what should you get but disgrace and misery if you took a wife you hated into your family (for I know very well that you do hate me)? No, no! I believe now that a man like you would murder anyone for money-- sharpen a razor and come up behind his best friend and cut his throat like a sheep--I've read of such people. Everyone seems money-mad nowadays. No, no! I may be shameless, but you are far worse. I don't say a word about that other--" "Nastasia Philipovna, is this really you? You, once so refined and delicate of speech. Oh, what a tongue! What dreadful things you are saying," cried the general, wringing his hands in real grief. "I am intoxicated, general. I am having a day out, you know--it's my birthday! I have long looked forward to this happy occasion. Daria Alexeyevna, you see that nosegay-man, that Monsieur aux Camelias, sitting there laughing at us?" "I am not laughing, Nastasia Philipovna; I am only listening with all my attention," said Totski, with dignity. "Well, why have I worried him, for five years, and never let him go free? Is he worth it? He is only just what he ought to be-- nothing particular. He thinks I am to blame, too. He gave me my education, kept me like a countess. Money--my word! What a lot of money he spent over me! And he tried to find me an honest husband first, and then this Gania, here. And what do you think? All these five years I did not live with him, and yet I took his money, and considered I was quite justified. "You say, take the hundred thousand and kick that man out. It is true, it is an abominable business, as you say. I might have married long ago, not Gania--Oh, no!--but that would have been abominable too. "Would you believe it, I had some thoughts of marrying Totski, four years ago! I meant mischief, I confess--but I could have had him, I give you my word; he asked me himself. But I thought, no! it's not worthwhile to take such advantage of him. No! I had better go on to the streets, or accept Rogojin, or become a washerwoman or something--for I have nothing of my own, you know. I shall go away and leave everything behind, to the last rag--he shall have it all back. And who would take me without anything? Ask Gania, there, whether he would. Why, even Ferdishenko wouldn't have me!" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 102 "No, Ferdishenko would not; he is a candid fellow, Nastasia Philipovna," said that worthy. "But the prince would. You sit here making complaints, but just look at the prince. I've been observing him for a long while." Nastasia Philipovna looked keenly round at the prince. "Is that true?" she asked. "Quite true," whispered the prince. "You'll take me as I am, with nothing?" "I will, Nastasia Philipovna." "Here's a pretty business!" cried the general. "However, it might have been expected of him." The prince continued to regard Nastasia with a sorrowful, but intent and piercing, gaze. "Here's another alternative for me," said Nastasia, turning once more to the actress; "and he does it out of pure kindness of heart. I know him. I've found a benefactor. Perhaps, though, what they say about him may be true--that he's an--we know what. And what shall you live on, if you are really so madly in love with Rogojin's mistress, that you are ready to marry her --eh?" "I take you as a good, honest woman, Nastasia Philipovna--not as Rogojin's mistress." "Who? I?--good and honest?" "Yes, you." "Oh, you get those ideas out of novels, you know. Times are changed now, dear prince; the world sees things as they really are. That's all nonsense. Besides, how can you marry? You need a nurse, not a wife." The prince rose and began to speak in a trembling, timid tone, but with the air of a man absolutely sure of the truth of his words. "I know nothing, Nastasia Philipovna. I have seen nothing. You are right so far; but I consider that you would be honouring me, and not I you. I am a nobody. You have suffered, you have passed through hell and emerged pure, and that is very much. Why do you shame yourself by desiring to go with Rogojin? You are delirious. You have returned to Mr. Totski his seventy-five thousand roubles, and declared that you will leave this house and all that is in it, which is a line of conduct that not one person here would imitate. Nastasia Philipovna, I love you! I would die for you. I shall never let any man say one word against you, Nastasia Philipovna! and if we are poor, I can work for both." As the prince spoke these last words a titter was heard from Ferdishenko; Lebedeff laughed too. The general grunted with irritation; Ptitsin and Totski barely restrained their smiles. The rest all sat listening, open-mouthed with wonder. "But perhaps we shall not be poor; we may be very rich, Nastasia Philipovna." continued the prince, in the same timid, quivering tones. "I don't know for certain, and I'm sorry to say I haven't had an opportunity of finding out all day; but I received a letter from Moscow, while I was in Switzerland, from a Mr. Salaskin, and he acquaints me with the fact that I am entitled to a very large inheritance. This letter--" The prince pulled a letter out of his pocket. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 103 "Is he raving?" said the general. "Are we really in a mad-house?" There was silence for a moment. Then Ptitsin spoke. "I think you said, prince, that your letter was from Salaskin? Salaskin is a very eminent man, indeed, in his own world; he is a wonderfully clever solicitor, and if he really tells you this, I think you may be pretty sure that he is right. It so happens, luckily, that I know his handwriting, for I have lately had business with him. If you would allow me to see it, I should perhaps be able to tell you." The prince held out the letter silently, but with a shaking hand. "What, what?" said the general, much agitated. "What's all this? Is he really heir to anything?" All present concentrated their attention upon Ptitsin, reading the prince's letter. The general curiosity had received a new fillip. Ferdishenko could not sit still. Rogojin fixed his eyes first on the prince, and then on Ptitsin, and then back again; he was extremely agitated. Lebedeff could not stand it. He crept up and read over Ptitsin's shoulder, with the air of a naughty boy who expects a box on the ear every moment for his indiscretion. XVI. "It's good business," said Ptitsin, at last, folding the letter and handing it back to the prince. "You will receive, without the slightest trouble, by the last will and testament of your aunt, a very large sum of money indeed." "Impossible!" cried the general, starting up as if he had been shot. Ptitsin explained, for the benefit of the company, that the prince's aunt had died five months since. He had never known her, but she was his mother's own sister, the daughter of a Moscow merchant, one Paparchin, who had died a bankrupt. But the elder brother of this same Paparchin, had been an eminent and very rich merchant. A year since it had so happened that his only two sons had both died within the same month. This sad event had so affected the old man that he, too, had died very shortly after. He was a widower, and had no relations left, excepting the prince's aunt, a poor woman living on charity, who was herself at the point of death from dropsy; but who had time, before she died, to set Salaskin to work to find her nephew, and to make her will bequeathing her newly-acquired fortune to him. It appeared that neither the prince, nor the doctor with whom he lived in Switzerland, had thought of waiting for further communications; but the prince had started straight away with Salaskin's letter in his pocket. "One thing I may tell you, for certain," concluded Ptitsin, addressing the prince, "that there is no question about the authenticity of this matter. Anything that Salaskin writes you as regards your unquestionable right to this inheritance, you may look upon as so much money in your pocket. I congratulate you, prince; you may receive a million and a half of roubles, perhaps more; I don't know. All I DO know is that Paparchin was a very rich merchant indeed." "Hurrah!" cried Lebedeff, in a drunken voice. "Hurrah for the last of the Muishkins!" "My goodness me! and I gave him twenty-five roubles this morning as though he were a beggar," blurted out the general, half senseless with amazement. "Well, I congratulate you, I congratulate you!" And the general rose from his seat and solemnly embraced the prince. All came forward with congratulations; even those of Rogojin's party who had retreated into the next room, now crept softly back to look on. For the moment even by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 104 Nastasia Philipovna was forgotten. But gradually the consciousness crept back into the minds of each one present that the prince had just made her an offer of marriage. The situation had, therefore, become three times as fantastic as before. Totski sat and shrugged his shoulders, bewildered. He was the only guest left sitting at this time; the others had thronged round the table in disorder, and were all talking at once. It was generally agreed, afterwards, in recalling that evening, that from this moment Nastasia Philipovna seemed entirely to lose her senses. She continued to sit still in her place, looking around at her guests with a strange, bewildered expression, as though she were trying to collect her thoughts, and could not. Then she suddenly turned to the prince, and glared at him with frowning brows; but this only lasted one moment. Perhaps it suddenly struck her that all this was a jest, but his face seemed to reassure her. She reflected, and smiled again, vaguely. "So I am really a princess," she whispered to herself, ironically, and glancing accidentally at Daria Alexeyevna's face, she burst out laughing. "Ha, ha, ha!" she cried, "this is an unexpected climax, after all. I didn't expect this. What are you all standing up for, gentlemen? Sit down; congratulate me and the prince! Ferdishenko, just step out and order some more champagne, will you? Katia, Pasha," she added suddenly, seeing the servants at the door, "come here! I'm going to be married, did you hear? To the prince. He has a million and a half of roubles; he is Prince Muishkin, and has asked me to marry him. Here, prince, come and sit by me; and here comes the wine. Now then, ladies and gentlemen, where are your congratulations?" "Hurrah!" cried a number of voices. A rush was made for the wine by Rogojin's followers, though, even among them, there seemed some sort of realization that the situation had changed. Rogojin stood and looked on, with an incredulous smile, screwing up one side of his mouth. "Prince, my dear fellow, do remember what you are about," said the general, approaching Muishkin, and pulling him by the coat sleeve. Nastasia Philipovna overheard the remark, and burst out laughing. "No, no, general!" she cried. "You had better look out! I am the princess now, you know. The prince won't let you insult me. Afanasy Ivanovitch, why don't you congratulate me? I shall be able to sit at table with your new wife, now. Aha! you see what I gain by marrying a prince! A million and a half, and a prince, and an idiot into the bargain, they say. What better could I wish for? Life is only just about to commence for me in earnest. Rogojin, you are a little too late. Away with your paper parcel! I'm going to marry the prince; I'm richer than you are now." But Rogojin understood how things were tending, at last. An inexpressibly painful expression came over his face. He wrung his hands; a groan made its way up from the depths of his soul. "Surrender her, for God's sake!" he said to the prince. All around burst out laughing. "What? Surrender her to YOU?" cried Daria Alexeyevna. "To a fellow who comes and bargains for a wife like a moujik! The prince wishes to marry her, and you--" "So do I, so do I! This moment, if I could! I'd give every farthing I have to do it." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 105 "You drunken moujik," said Daria Alexeyevna, once more. "You ought to be kicked out of the place." The laughter became louder than ever. "Do you hear, prince?" said Nastasia Philipovna. "Do you hear how this moujik of a fellow goes on bargaining for your bride?" "He is drunk," said the prince, quietly, "and he loves you very much." "Won't you be ashamed, afterwards, to reflect that your wife very nearly ran away with Rogojin?" "Oh, you were raving, you were in a fever; you are still half delirious." "And won't you be ashamed when they tell you, afterwards, that your wife lived at Totski's expense so many years?" "No; I shall not be ashamed of that. You did not so live by your own will." "And you'll never reproach me with it?" "Never." "Take care, don't commit yourself for a whole lifetime." "Nastasia Philipovna." said the prince, quietly, and with deep emotion, "I said before that I shall esteem your consent to be my wife as a great honour to myself, and shall consider that it is you who will honour me, not I you, by our marriage. You laughed at these words, and others around us laughed as well; I heard them. Very likely I expressed myself funnily, and I may have looked funny, but, for all that, I believe I understand where honour lies, and what I said was but the literal truth. You were about to ruin yourself just now, irrevocably; you would never have forgiven yourself for so doing afterwards; and yet, you are absolutely blameless. It is impossible that your life should be altogether ruined at your age. What matter that Rogojin came bargaining here, and that Gavrila Ardalionovitch would have deceived you if he could? Why do you continually remind us of these facts? I assure you once more that very few could find it in them to act as you have acted this day. As for your wish to go with Rogojin, that was simply the idea of a delirious and suffering brain. You are still quite feverish; you ought to be in bed, not here. You know quite well that if you had gone with Rogojin, you would have become a washer-woman next day, rather than stay with him. You are proud, Nastasia Philipovna, and perhaps you have really suffered so much that you imagine yourself to be a desperately guilty woman. You require a great deal of petting and looking after, Nastasia Philipovna, and I will do this. I saw your portrait this morning, and it seemed quite a familiar face to me; it seemed to me that the portrait- face was calling to me for help. I-I shall respect you all my life, Nastasia Philipovna," concluded the prince, as though suddenly recollecting himself, and blushing to think of the sort of company before whom he had said all this. Ptitsin bowed his head and looked at the ground, overcome by a mixture of feelings. Totski muttered to himself: "He may be an idiot, but he knows that flattery is the best road to success here." The prince observed Gania's eyes flashing at him, as though they would gladly annihilate him then and there. "That's a kind-hearted man, if you like," said Daria Alexeyevna, whose wrath was quickly evaporating. "A refined man, but--lost," murmured the general. Totski took his hat and rose to go. He and the general exchanged glances, making a private arrangement, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 106 thereby, to leave the house together. "Thank you, prince; no one has ever spoken to me like that before," began Nastasia Philipovna. "Men have always bargained for me, before this; and not a single respectable man has ever proposed to marry me. Do you hear, Afanasy Ivanovitch? What do YOU think of what the prince has just been saying? It was almost immodest, wasn't it? You, Rogojin, wait a moment, don't go yet! I see you don't intend to move however. Perhaps I may go with you yet. Where did you mean to take me to?" "To Ekaterinhof," replied Lebedeff. Rogojin simply stood staring, with trembling lips, not daring to believe his ears. He was stunned, as though from a blow on the head. "What are you thinking of, my dear Nastasia?" said Daria Alexeyevna in alarm. "What are you saying?" "You are not going mad, are you?" Nastasia Philipovna burst out laughing and jumped up from the sofa. "You thought I should accept this good child's invitation to ruin him, did you?" she cried. "That's Totski's way, not mine. He's fond of children. Come along, Rogojin, get your money ready! We won't talk about marrying just at this moment, but let's see the money at all events. Come! I may not marry you, either. I don't know. I suppose you thought you'd keep the money, if I did! Ha, ha, ha! nonsense! I have no sense of shame left. I tell you I have been Totski's concubine. Prince, you must marry Aglaya Ivanovna, not Nastasia Philipovna, or this fellow Ferdishenko will always be pointing the finger of scorn at you. You aren't afraid, I know; but I should always be afraid that I had ruined you, and that you would reproach me for it. As for what you say about my doing you honour by marrying you-well, Totski can tell you all about that. You had your eye on Aglaya, Gania, you know you had; and you might have married her if you had not come bargaining. You are all like this. You should choose, once for all, between disreputable women, and respectable ones, or you are sure to get mixed. Look at the general, how he's staring at me!" "This is too horrible," said the general, starting to his feet. All were standing up now. Nastasia was absolutely beside herself. "I am very proud, in spite of what I am," she continued. "You called me 'perfection' just now, prince. A nice sort of perfection to throw up a prince and a million and a half of roubles in order to be able to boast of the fact afterwards! What sort of a wife should I make for you, after all I have said? Afanasy Ivanovitch, do you observe I have really and truly thrown away a million of roubles? And you thought that I should consider your wretched seventy-five thousand, with Gania thrown in for a husband, a paradise of bliss! Take your seventy-five thousand back, sir; you did not reach the hundred thousand. Rogojin cut a better dash than you did. I'll console Gania myself; I have an idea about that. But now I must be off! I've been in prison for ten years. I'm free at last! Well, Rogojin, what are you waiting for? Let's get ready and go." "Come along!" shouted Rogojin, beside himself with joy. "Hey! all of you fellows! Wine! Round with it! Fill the glasses!" "Get away!" he shouted frantically, observing that Daria Alexeyevna was approaching to protest against Nastasia's conduct. "Get away, she's mine, everything's mine! She's a queen, get away!" He was panting with ecstasy. He walked round and round Nastasia Philipovna and told everybody to "keep their distance." All the Rogojin company were now collected in the drawing-room; some were drinking, some laughed and talked: all were in the highest and wildest spirits. Ferdishenko was doing his best to unite himself to them; the general and Totski again made an attempt to go. Gania, too stood hat in hand ready to go; but seemed to be by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 107 unable to tear his eyes away from the scene before him "Get out, keep your distance!" shouted Rogojin. "What are you shouting about there!" cried Nastasia "I'm not yours yet. I may kick you out for all you know I haven't taken your money yet; there it all is on the table Here, give me over that packet! Is there a hundred thousand roubles in that one packet? Pfu! what abominable stuff it looks! Oh! nonsense, Daria Alexeyevna; you surely did not expect me to ruin HIM?" (indicating the prince). "Fancy him nursing me! Why, he needs a nurse himself! The general, there, will be his nurse now, you'll see. Here, prince, look here! Your bride is accepting money. What a disreputable woman she must be! And you wished to marry her! What are you crying about? Is it a bitter dose? Never mind, you shall laugh yet. Trust to time." (In spite of these words there were two large tears rolling down Nastasia's own cheeks.) "It's far better to think twice of it now than afterwards. Oh! you mustn't cry like that! There's Katia crying, too. What is it, Katia, dear? I shall leave you and Pasha a lot of things, I've laid them out for you already; but good-bye, now. I made an honest girl like you serve a low woman like myself. It's better so, prince, it is indeed. You'd begin to despise me afterwards-- we should never be happy. Oh! you needn't swear, prince, I shan't believe you, you know. How foolish it would be, too! No, no; we'd better say good-bye and part friends. I am a bit of a dreamer myself, and I used to dream of you once. Very often during those five years down at his estate I used to dream and think, and I always imagined just such a good, honest, foolish fellow as you, one who should come and say to me: 'You are an innocent woman, Nastasia Philipovna, and I adore you.' I dreamt of you often. I used to think so much down there that I nearly went mad; and then this fellow here would come down. He would stay a couple of months out of the twelve, and disgrace and insult and deprave me, and then go; so that I longed to drown myself in the pond a thousand times over; but I did not dare do it. I hadn't the heart, and now--well, are you ready, Rogojin?" "Ready--keep your distance, all of you!" "We're all ready," said several of his friends. "The troikas [Sledges drawn by three horses abreast.] are at the door, bells and all." Nastasia Philipovna seized the packet of bank-notes. "Gania, I have an idea. I wish to recompense you--why should you lose all? Rogojin, would he crawl for three roubles as far as the Vassiliostrof? "Oh, wouldn't he just!" "Well, look here, Gania. I wish to look into your heart once more, for the last time. You've worried me for the last three months--now it's my turn. Do you see this packet? It contains a hundred thousand roubles. Now, I'm going to throw it into the fire, here--before all these witnesses. As soon as the fire catches hold of it, you put your hands into the fire and pick it out--without gloves, you know. You must have bare hands, and you must turn your sleeves up. Pull it out, I say, and it's all yours. You may burn your fingers a little, of course; but then it's a hundred thousand roubles, remember--it won't take you long to lay hold of it and snatch it out. I shall so much admire you if you put your hands into the fire for my money. All here present may be witnesses that the whole packet of money is yours if you get it out. If you don't get it out, it shall burn. I will let no one else come; away--get away, all of you--it's my money! Rogojin has bought me with it. Is it my money, Rogojin?" "Yes, my queen; it's your own money, my joy." "Get away then, all of you. I shall do as I like with my own-- don't meddle! Ferdishenko, make up the fire, quick!" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 108 "Nastasia Philipovna, I can't; my hands won't obey me," said Ferdishenko, astounded and helpless with bewilderment. "Nonsense," cried Nastasia Philipovna, seizing the poker and raking a couple of logs together. No sooner did a tongue of flame burst out than she threw the packet of notes upon it. Everyone gasped; some even crossed themselves. "She's mad--she's mad!" was the cry. "Oughtn't-oughtn't we to secure her?" asked the general of Ptitsin, in a whisper; "or shall we send for the authorities? Why, she's mad, isn't she--isn't she, eh?" "N-no, I hardly think she is actually mad," whispered Ptitsin, who was as white as his handkerchief, and trembling like a leaf. He could not take his eyes off the smouldering packet. "She's mad surely, isn't she?" the general appealed to Totski. "I told you she wasn't an ordinary woman," replied the latter, who was as pale as anyone. "Oh, but, positively, you know--a hundred thousand roubles!" "Goodness gracious! good heavens!" came from all quarters of the room. All now crowded round the fire and thronged to see what was going on; everyone lamented and gave vent to exclamations of horror and woe. Some jumped up on chairs in order to get a better view. Daria Alexeyevna ran into the next room and whispered excitedly to Katia and Pasha. The beautiful German disappeared altogether. "My lady! my sovereign!" lamented Lebedeff, falling on his knees before Nastasia Philipovna, and stretching out his hands towards the fire; "it's a hundred thousand roubles, it is indeed, I packed it up myself, I saw the money! My queen, let me get into the fire after it--say the word-I'll put my whole grey head into the fire for it! I have a poor lame wife and thirteen children. My father died of starvation last week. Nastasia Philipovna, Nastasia Philipovna!" The wretched little man wept, and groaned, and crawled towards the fire. "Away, out of the way!" cried Nastasia. "Make room, all of you! Gania, what are you standing there for? Don't stand on ceremony. Put in your hand! There's your whole happiness smouldering away, look! Quick!" But Gania had borne too much that day, and especially this evening, and he was not prepared for this last, quite unexpected trial. The crowd parted on each side of him and he was left face to face with Nastasia Philipovna, three paces from her. She stood by the fire and waited, with her intent gaze fixed upon him. Gania stood before her, in his evening clothes, holding his white gloves and hat in his hand, speechless and motionless, with arms folded and eyes fixed on the fire. A silly, meaningless smile played on his white, death-like lips. He could not take his eyes off the smouldering packet; but it appeared that something new had come to birth in his soul--as though he were vowing to himself that he would bear this trial. He did not move from his place. In a few seconds it became evident to all that he did not intend to rescue the money. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 109 "Hey! look at it, it'll burn in another minute or two!" cried Nastasia Philipovna. "You'll hang yourself afterwards, you know, if it does! I'm not joking." The fire, choked between a couple of smouldering pieces of wood, had died down for the first few moments after the packet was thrown upon it. But a little tongue of fire now began to lick the paper from below, and soon, gathering courage, mounted the sides of the parcel, and crept around it. In another moment, the whole of it burst into flames, and the exclamations of woe and horror were redoubled. "Nastasia Philipovna!" lamented Lebedeff again, straining towards the fireplace; but Rogojin dragged him away, and pushed him to the rear once more. The whole of Regojin's being was concentrated in one rapturous gaze of ecstasy. He could not take his eyes off Nastasia. He stood drinking her in, as it were. He was in the seventh heaven of delight. "Oh, what a queen she is!" he ejaculated, every other minute, throwing out the remark for anyone who liked to catch it. "That's the sort of woman for me! Which of you would think of doing a thing like that, you blackguards, eh?" he yelled. He was hopelessly and wildly beside himself with ecstasy. The prince watched the whole scene, silent and dejected. "I'll pull it out with my teeth for one thousand," said Ferdishenko. "So would I," said another, from behind, "with pleasure. Devil take the thing!" he added, in a tempest of despair, "it will all be burnt up in a minute--It's burning, it's burning!" "It's burning, it's burning!" cried all, thronging nearer and nearer to the fire in their excitement. "Gania, don't be a fool! I tell you for the last time." "Get on, quick!" shrieked Ferdishenko, rushing wildly up to Gania, and trying to drag him to the fire by the sleeve of his coat. "Get it, you dummy, it's burning away fast! Oh--DAMN the thing!" Gania hurled Ferdishenko from him; then he turned sharp round and made for the door. But he had not gone a couple of steps when he tottered and fell to the ground. "He's fainted!" the cry went round. "And the money's burning still," Lebedeff lamented. "Burning for nothing," shouted others. "Katia-Pasha! Bring him some water!" cried Nastasia Philipovna. Then she took the tongs and fished out the packet. Nearly the whole of the outer covering was burned away, but it was soon evident that the contents were hardly touched. The packet had been wrapped in a threefold covering of newspaper, and the, notes were safe. All breathed more freely. "Some dirty little thousand or so may be touched," said Lebedeff, immensely relieved, "but there's very little harm done, after all." "It's all his--the whole packet is for him, do you hear--all of you?" cried Nastasia Philipovna, placing the by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 110 packet by the side of Gania. "He restrained himself, and didn't go after it; so his self-respect is greater than his thirst for money. All right-- he'll come to directly--he must have the packet or he'll cut his throat afterwards. There! He's coming to himself. General, Totski, all of you, did you hear me? The money is all Gania's. I give it to him, fully conscious of my action, as recompense for-- well, for anything he thinks best. Tell him so. Let it lie here beside him. Off we go, Rogojin! Goodbye, prince. I have seen a man for the first time in my life. Goodbye, Afanasy Ivanovitch-- and thanks!" The Rogojin gang followed their leader and Nastasia Philipovna to the entrance-hall, laughing and shouting and whistling. In the hall the servants were waiting, and handed her her fur cloak. Martha, the cook, ran in from the kitchen. Nastasia kissed them all round. "Are you really throwing us all over, little mother? Where, where are you going to? And on your birthday, too!" cried the four girls, crying over her and kissing her hands. "I am going out into the world, Katia; perhaps I shall be a laundress. I don't know. No more of Afanasy Ivanovitch, anyhow. Give him my respects. Don't think badly of me, girls." The prince hurried down to the front gate where the party were settling into the troikas, all the bells tinkling a merry accompaniment the while. The general caught him up on the stairs: "Prince, prince!" he cried, seizing hold of his arm, "recollect yourself! Drop her, prince! You see what sort of a woman she is. I am speaking to you like a father." The prince glanced at him, but said nothing. He shook himself free, and rushed on downstairs. The general was just in time to see the prince take the first sledge he could get, and, giving the order to Ekaterinhof, start off in pursuit of the troikas. Then the general's fine grey horse dragged that worthy home, with some new thoughts, and some new hopes and calculations developing in his brain, and with the pearls in his pocket, for he had not forgotten to bring them along with him, being a man of business. Amid his new thoughts and ideas there came, once or twice, the image of Nastasia Philipovna. The general sighed. "I'm sorry, really sorry," he muttered. "She's a ruined woman. Mad! mad! However, the prince is not for Nastasia Philipovna now,--perhaps it's as well." Two more of Nastasia's guests, who walked a short distance together, indulged in high moral sentiments of a similar nature. "Do you know, Totski, this is all very like what they say goes on among the Japanese?" said Ptitsin. "The offended party there, they say, marches off to his insulter and says to him, 'You insulted me, so I have come to rip myself open before your eyes;' and with these words he does actually rip his stomach open before his enemy, and considers, doubtless, that he is having all possible and necessary satisfaction and revenge. There are strange characters in the world, sir!" "H'm! and you think there was something of this sort here, do you? Dear me--a very remarkable comparison, you know! But you must have observed, my dear Ptitsin, that I did all I possibly could. I could do no more than I did. And you must admit that there are some rare qualities in this woman. I felt I could not speak in that Bedlam, or I should have been tempted to cry out, when she reproached me, that she herself was my best justification. Such a woman could make anyone forget all reason-- everything! Even that moujik, Rogojin, you saw, brought her a hundred thousand roubles! Of course, all that happened tonight was ephemeral, fantastic, unseemly--yet it lacked neither colour nor originality. My God! What might not have been made of by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 111 such a character combined with such beauty! Yet in spite of all efforts --in spite of all education, even--all those gifts are wasted! She is an uncut diamond.... I have often said so." And Afanasy Ivanovitch heaved a deep sigh. PART II I. Two days after the strange conclusion to Nastasia Philipovna's birthday party, with the record of which we concluded the first part of this story, Prince Muishkin hurriedly left St. Petersburg for Moscow, in order to see after some business connected with the receipt of his unexpected fortune. It was said that there were other reasons for his hurried departure; but as to this, and as to his movements in Moscow, and as to his prolonged absence from St. Petersburg, we are able to give very little information. The prince was away for six months, and even those who were most interested in his destiny were able to pick up very little news about him all that while. True, certain rumours did reach his friends, but these were both strange and rare, and each one contradicted the last. Of course the Epanchin family was much interested in his movements, though he had not had time to bid them farewell before his departure. The general, however, had had an opportunity of seeing him once or twice since the eventful evening, and had spoken very seriously with him; but though he had seen the prince, as I say, he told his family nothing about the circumstance. In fact, for a month or so after his departure it was considered not the thing to mention the prince's name in the Epanchin household. Only Mrs. Epanchin, at the commencement of this period, had announced that she had been "cruelly mistaken in the prince!" and a day or two after, she had added, evidently alluding to him, but not mentioning his name, that it was an unalterable characteristic of hers to be mistaken in people. Then once more, ten days later, after some passage of arms with one of her daughters, she had remarked sententiously. "We have had enough of mistakes. I shall be more careful in future!" However, it was impossible to avoid remarking that there was some sense of oppression in the household--something unspoken, but felt; something strained. All the members of the family wore frowning looks. The general was unusually busy; his family hardly ever saw him. As to the girls, nothing was said openly, at all events; and probably very little in private. They were proud damsels, and were not always perfectly confidential even among themselves. But they understood each other thoroughly at the first word on all occasions; very often at the first glance, so that there was no need of much talking as a rule. One fact, at least, would have been perfectly plain to an outsider, had any such person been on the spot; and that was, that the prince had made a very considerable impression upon the family, in spite of the fact that he had but once been inside the house, and then only for a short time. Of course, if analyzed, this impression might have proved to be nothing more than a feeling of curiosity; but be it what it might, there it undoubtedly was. Little by little, the rumours spread about town became lost in a maze of uncertainty. It was said that some foolish young prince, name unknown, had suddenly come into possession of a gigantic fortune, and had married a French ballet dancer. This was contradicted, and the rumour circulated that it was a young merchant who had come into the enormous fortune and married the great ballet dancer, and that at the wedding the drunken young fool had burned seventy thousand roubles at a candle out of pure bravado. However, all these rumours soon died down, to which circumstance certain facts largely contributed. For instance, the whole of the Rogojin troop had departed, with him at their head, for Moscow. This was exactly a by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 112 week after a dreadful orgy at the Ekaterinhof gardens, where Nastasia Philipovna had been present. It became known that after this orgy Nastasia Philipovna had entirely disappeared, and that she had since been traced to Moscow; so that the exodus of the Rogojin band was found consistent with this report. There were rumours current as to Gania, too; but circumstances soon contradicted these. He had fallen seriously ill, and his illness precluded his appearance in society, and even at business, for over a month. As soon as he had recovered, however, he threw up his situation in the public company under General Epanchin's direction, for some unknown reason, and the post was given to another. He never went near the Epanchins' house at all, and was exceedingly irritable and depressed. Varvara Ardalionovna married Ptitsin this winter, and it was said that the fact of Gania's retirement from business was the ultimate cause of the marriage, since Gania was now not only unable to support his family, but even required help himself. We may mention that Gania was no longer mentioned in the Epanchin household any more than the prince was; but that a certain circumstance in connection with the fatal evening at Nastasia's house became known to the general, and, in fact, to all the family the very next day. This fact was that Gania had come home that night, but had refused to go to bed. He had awaited the prince's return from Ekaterinhof with feverish impatience. On the latter's arrival, at six in the morning, Gania had gone to him in his room, bringing with him the singed packet of money, which he had insisted that the prince should return to Nastasia Philipovna without delay. It was said that when Gania entered the prince's room, he came with anything but friendly feelings, and in a condition of despair and misery; but that after a short conversation, he had stayed on for a couple of hours with him, sobbing continuously and bitterly the whole time. They had parted upon terms of cordial friendship. The Epanchins heard about this, as well as about the episode at Nastasia Philipovna's. It was strange, perhaps, that the facts should become so quickly, and fairly accurately, known. As far as Gania was concerned, it might have been supposed that the news had come through Varvara Ardalionovna, who had suddenly become a frequent visitor of the Epanchin girls, greatly to their mother's surprise. But though Varvara had seen fit, for some reason, to make friends with them, it was not likely that she would have talked to them about her brother. She had plenty of pride, in spite of the fact that in thus acting she was seeking intimacy with people who had practically shown her brother the door. She and the Epanchin girls had been acquainted in childhood, although of late they had met but rarely. Even now Varvara hardly ever appeared in the drawing-room, but would slip in by a back way. Lizabetha Prokofievna, who disliked Varvara, although she had a great respect for her mother, was much annoyed by this sudden intimacy, and put it down to the general "contrariness" of her daughters, who were "always on the lookout for some new way of opposing her." Nevertheless, Varvara continued her visits. A month after Muishkin's departure, Mrs. Epanchin received a letter from her old friend Princess Bielokonski (who had lately left for Moscow), which letter put her into the greatest good humour. She did not divulge its contents either to her daughters or the general, but her conduct towards the former became affectionate in the extreme. She even made some sort of confession to them, but they were unable to understand what it was about. She actually relaxed towards the general a little--he had been long disgraced--and though she managed to quarrel with them all the next day, yet she soon came round, and from her general behaviour it was to be concluded that she had bad good news of some sort, which she would like, but could not make up her mind, to disclose. However, a week later she received another letter from the same source, and at last resolved to speak. She solemnly announced that she had heard from old Princess Bielokonski, who had given her most comforting news about "that queer young prince." Her friend had hunted him up, and found that all was going by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 113 well with him. He had since called in person upon her, making an extremely favourable impression, for the princess had received him each day since, and had introduced him into several good houses. The girls could see that their mother concealed a great deal from them, and left out large pieces of the letter in reading it to them. However, the ice was broken, and it suddenly became possible to mention the prince's name again. And again it became evident how very strong was the impression the young man had made in the household by his one visit there. Mrs. Epanchin was surprised at the effect which the news from Moscow had upon the girls, and they were no less surprised that after solemnly remarking that her most striking characteristic was "being mistaken in people" she should have troubled to obtain for the prince the favour and protection of so powerful an old lady as the Princess Bielokonski. As soon as the ice was thus broken, the general lost no time in showing that he, too, took the greatest interest in the subject. He admitted that he was interested, but said that it was merely in the business side of the question. It appeared that, in the interests of the prince, he had made arrangements in Moscow for a careful watch to be kept upon the prince's business affairs, and especially upon Salaskin. All that had been said as to the prince being an undoubted heir to a fortune turned out to be perfectly true; but the fortune proved to be much smaller than was at first reported. The estate was considerably encumbered with debts; creditors turned up on all sides, and the prince, in spite of all advice and entreaty, insisted upon managing all matters of claim himself--which, of course, meant satisfying everybody all round, although half the claims were absolutely fraudulent. Mrs. Epanchin confirmed all this. She said the princess had written to much the same effect, and added that there was no curing a fool. But it was plain, from her expression of face, how strongly she approved of this particular young fool's doings. In conclusion, the general observed that his wife took as great an interest in the prince as though he were her own son; and that she had commenced to be especially affectionate towards Aglaya was a self-evident fact. All this caused the general to look grave and important. But, alas! this agreeable state of affairs very soon changed once more. A couple of weeks went by, and suddenly the general and his wife were once more gloomy and silent, and the ice was as firm as ever. The fact was, the general, who had heard first, how Nastasia Philipovna had fled to Moscow and had been discovered there by Rogojin; that she had then disappeared once more, and been found again by Rogojin, and how after that she had almost promised to marry him, now received news that she had once more disappeared, almost on the very day fixed for her wedding, flying somewhere into the interior of Russia this time, and that Prince Muishkin had left all his affairs in the hands of Salaskin and disappeared also--but whether he was with Nastasia, or had only set off in search of her, was unknown. Lizabetha Prokofievna received confirmatory news from the princess--and alas, two months after the prince's first departure from St. Petersburg, darkness and mystery once more enveloped his whereabouts and actions, and in the Epanchin family the ice of silence once more formed over the subject. Varia, however, informed the girls of what had happened, she having received the news from Ptitsin, who generally knew more than most people. To make an end, we may say that there were many changes in the Epanchin household in the spring, so that it was not difficult to forget the prince, who sent no news of himself. The Epanchin family had at last made up their minds to spend the summer abroad, all except the general, who could not waste time in "travelling for enjoyment," of course. This arrangement was brought about by the persistence of the girls, who insisted that they were never allowed to go abroad because their parents were too anxious to marry them off. Perhaps their parents had at last come to the conclusion that husbands might be found abroad, and that a summer's travel might bear fruit. The marriage between Alexandra and Totski had by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 114 been broken off. Since the prince's departure from St. Petersburg no more had been said about it; the subject had been dropped without ceremony, much to the joy of Mrs. General, who, announced that she was "ready to cross herself with both hands" in gratitude for the escape. The general, however, regretted Totski for a long while. "Such a fortune!" he sighed, "and such a good, easy-going fellow!" After a time it became known that Totski had married a French marquise, and was to be carried off by her to Paris, and then to Brittany. "Oh, well," thought the general, "he's lost to us for good, now." So the Epanchins prepared to depart for the summer. But now another circumstance occurred, which changed all the plans once more, and again the intended journey was put off, much to the delight of the general and his spouse. A certain Prince S-- arrived in St. Petersburg from Moscow, an eminent and honourable young man. He was one of those active persons who always find some good work with which to employ themselves. Without forcing himself upon the public notice, modest and unobtrusive, this young prince was concerned with much that happened in the world in general. He had served, at first, in one of the civil departments, had then attended to matters connected with the local government of provincial towns, and had of late been a corresponding member of several important scientific societies. He was a man of excellent family and solid means, about thirty-five years of age. Prince S-- made the acquaintance of the general's family, and Adelaida, the second girl, made a great impression upon him. Towards the spring he proposed to her, and she accepted him. The general and his wife were delighted. The journey abroad was put off, and the wedding was fixed for a day not very distant. The trip abroad might have been enjoyed later on by Mrs. Epanchin and her two remaining daughters, but for another circumstance. It so happened that Prince S-- introduced a distant relation of his own into the Epanchin family--one Evgenie Pavlovitch, a young officer of about twenty-eight years of age, whose conquests among the ladies in Moscow had been proverbial. This young gentleman no sooner set eyes on Aglaya than he became a frequent visitor at the house. He was witty, well-educated, and extremely wealthy, as the general very soon discovered. His past reputation was the only thing against him. Nothing was said; there were not even any hints dropped; but still, it seemed better to the parents to say nothing more about going abroad this season, at all events. Aglaya herself perhaps was of a different opinion. All this happened just before the second appearance of our hero upon the scene. By this time, to judge from appearances, poor Prince Muishkin had been quite forgotten in St. Petersburg. If he had appeared suddenly among his acquaintances, he would have been received as one from the skies; but we must just glance at one more fact before we conclude this preface. Colia Ivolgin, for some time after the prince's departure, continued his old life. That is, he went to school, looked after his father, helped Varia in the house, and ran her errands, and went frequently to see his friend, Hippolyte. The lodgers had disappeared very quickly--Ferdishenko soon after the events at Nastasia Philipovna's, while the prince went to Moscow, as we know. Gania and his mother went to live with Varia and Ptitsin by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 115 immediately after the latter's wedding, while the general was housed in a debtor's prison by reason of certain IOU's given to the captain's widow under the impression that they would never be formally used against him. This unkind action much surprised poor Ardalion Alexandrovitch, the victim, as he called himself, of an "unbounded trust in the nobility of the human heart." When he signed those notes of hand,he never dreamt that they would be a source of future trouble. The event showed that he was mistaken. "Trust in anyone after this! Have the least confidence in man or woman!" he cried in bitter tones, as he sat with his new friends in prison, and recounted to them his favourite stories of the siege of Kars, and the resuscitated soldier. On the whole, he accommodated himself very well to his new position. Ptitsin and Varia declared that he was in the right place, and Gania was of the same opinion. The only person who deplored his fate was poor Nina Alexandrovna, who wept bitter tears over him, to the great surprise of her household, and, though always in feeble health, made a point of going to see him as often as possible. Since the general's "mishap," as Colia called it, and the marriage of his sister, the boy had quietly possessed himself of far more freedom. His relations saw little of him, for he rarely slept at home. He made many new friends; and was moreover, a frequent visitor at the debtor's prison, to which he invariably accompanied his mother. Varia, who used to be always correcting him, never spoke to him now on the subject of his frequent absences, and the whole household was surprised to see Gania, in spite of his depression, on quite friendly terms with his brother. This was something new, for Gania had been wont to look upon Colia as a kind of errand-boy, treating him with contempt, threatening to "pull his ears," and in general driving him almost wild with irritation. It seemed now that Gania really needed his brother, and the latter, for his part, felt as if he could forgive Gania much since he had returned the hundred thousand roubles offered to him by Nastasia Philipovna. Three months after the departure of the prince, the Ivolgin family discovered that Colia had made acquaintance with the Epanchins, and was on very friendly terms with the daughters. Varia heard of it first, though Colia had not asked her to introduce him. Little by little the family grew quite fond of him. Madame Epanchin at first looked on him with disdain, and received him coldly, but in a short time he grew to please her, because, as she said, he "was candid and no flatterer" -- a very true description. From the first he put himself on an equality with his new friends, and though he sometimes read newspapers and books to the mistress of the house, it was simply because he liked to be useful. One day, however, he and Lizabetha Prokofievna quarrelled seriously about the "woman question," in the course of a lively discussion on that burning subject. He told her that she was a tyrant, and that he would never set foot in her house again. It may seem incredible, but a day or two after, Madame Epanchin sent a servant with a note begging him to return, and Colia, without standing on his dignity, did so at once. Aglaya was the only one of the family whose good graces he could not gain, and who always spoke to him haughtily, but it so happened that the boy one day succeeded in giving the proud maiden a surprise. It was about Easter, when, taking advantage of a momentary tete- a-tete Colia handed Aglaya a letter, remarking that he "had orders to deliver it to her privately." She stared at him in amazement, but he did not wait to hear what she had to say, and went out. Aglaya broke the seal, and read as follows: "Once you did me the honour of giving me your confidence. Perhaps you have quite forgotten me now! How is it that I am writing to you? I do not know; but I am conscious of an irresistible desire to remind you of my existence, especially you. How many times I have needed all three of you; but only you have dwelt always in my mind's eye. I need you--I need you very much. I will not write about myself. I have nothing to tell you. But I long for you to be happy. ARE you happy? That is all I wished to say to you--Your brother, "PR. L. MUISHKIN." On reading this short and disconnected note, Aglaya suddenly blushed all over, and became very thoughtful. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 116 It would be difficult to describe her thoughts at that moment. One of them was, "Shall I show it to anyone?" But she was ashamed to show it. So she ended by hiding it in her table drawer, with a very strange, ironical smile upon her lips. Next day, she took it out, and put it into a large book, as she usually did with papers which she wanted to be able to find easily. She laughed when, about a week later, she happened to notice the name of the book, and saw that it was Don Quixote, but it would be difficult to say exactly why. I cannot say, either, whether she showed the letter to her sisters. But when she had read it herself once more, it suddenly struck her that surely that conceited boy, Colia, had not been the one chosen correspondent of the prince all this while. She determined to ask him, and did so with an exaggerated show of carelessness. He informed her haughtily that though he had given the prince his permanent address when the latter left town, and had offered his services, the prince had never before given him any commission to perform, nor had he written until the following lines arrived, with Aglaya's letter. Aglaya took the note, and read it. "DEAR COLIA,--Please be so kind as to give the enclosed sealed letter to Aglaya Ivanovna. Keep well--Ever your loving, "PR. L. MUISHKIN." "It seems absurd to trust a little pepper-box like you," said Aglaya, as she returned the note, and walked past the "pepper- box" with an expression of great contempt. This was more than Colia could bear. He had actually borrowed Gania's new green tie for the occasion, without saying why he wanted it, in order to impress her. He was very deeply mortified. IT was the beginning of June, and for a whole week the weather in St. Petersburg had been magnificent. The Epanchins had a luxurious country-house at Pavlofsk, [One of the fashionable summer resorts near St. Petersburg.] and to this spot Mrs. Epanchin determined to proceed without further delay. In a couple of days all was ready, and the family had left town. A day or two after this removal to Pavlofsk, Prince Muishkin arrived in St. Petersburg by the morning train from Moscow. No one met him; but, as he stepped out of the carriage, he suddenly became aware of two strangely glowing eyes fixed upon him from among the crowd that met the train. On endeavouring to re-discover the eyes, and see to whom they belonged, he could find nothing to guide him. It must have been a hallucination. But the disagreeable impression remained, and without this, the prince was sad and thoughtful already, and seemed to be much preoccupied. His cab took him to a small and bad hotel near the Litaynaya. Here he engaged a couple of rooms, dark and badly furnished. He washed and changed, and hurriedly left the hotel again, as though anxious to waste no time. Anyone who now saw him for the first time since he left Petersburg would judge that he had improved vastly so far as his exterior was concerned. His clothes certainly were very different; they were more fashionable, perhaps even too much so, and anyone inclined to mockery might have found something to smile at in his appearance. But what is there that people will not smile at? The prince took a cab and drove to a street near the Nativity, where he soon discovered the house he was seeking. It was a small wooden villa, and he was struck by its attractive and clean appearance; it stood in a pleasant little garden, full of flowers. The windows looking on the street were open, and the sound of a voice, reading aloud or making a speech, came through them. It rose at times to a shout, and was interrupted occasionally by bursts of laughter. Prince Muishkin entered the court-yard, and ascended the steps. A cook with her sleeves turned up to the elbows opened the door. The visitor asked if Mr. Lebedeff were at home. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 117 "He is in there," said she, pointing to the salon. The room had a blue wall-paper, and was well, almost pretentiously, furnished, with its round table, its divan, and its bronze clock under a glass shade. There was a narrow pier- glass against the wall, and a chandelier adorned with lustres hung by a bronze chain from the ceiling. When the prince entered, Lebedeff was standing in the middle of the room, his back to the door. He was in his shirt-sleeves, on account of the extreme heat, and he seemed to have just reached the peroration of his speech, and was impressively beating his breast. His audience consisted of a youth of about fifteen years of age with a clever face, who had a book in his hand, though he was not reading; a young lady of twenty, in deep mourning, stood near him with an infant in her arms; another girl of thirteen, also in black, was laughing loudly, her mouth wide open; and on the sofa lay a handsome young man, with black hair and eyes, and a suspicion of beard and whiskers. He frequently interrupted the speaker and argued with him, to the great delight of the others. "Lukian Timofeyovitch! Lukian Timofeyovitch! Here's someone to see you! Look here! . . . a gentleman to speak to you! . . . Well, it's not my fault!" and the cook turned and went away red with anger. Lebedeff started, and at sight of the prince stood like a statue for a moment. Then he moved up to him with an ingratiating smile, but stopped short again. "Prince! ex-ex-excellency!" he stammered. Then suddenly he ran towards the girl with the infant, a movement so unexpected by her that she staggered and fell back, but next moment he was threatening the other child, who was standing, still laughing, in the doorway. She screamed, and ran towards the kitchen. Lebedeff stamped his foot angrily; then, seeing the prince regarding him with amazement, he murmured apologetically--"Pardon to show respect! . . . he-he!" " You are quite wrong . . ." began the prince. "At once . . . at once . . . in one moment!" He rushed like a whirlwind from the room, and Muishkin looked inquiringly at the others. They were all laughing, and the guest joined in the chorus. "He has gone to get his coat," said the boy. "How annoying!" exclaimed the prince. "I thought . . . Tell me, is he . . ." "You think he is drunk?" cried the young man on the sofa. " Not in the least. He's only had three or four small glasses, perhaps five; but what is that? The usual thing!" As the prince opened his mouth to answer, he was interrupted by the girl, whose sweet face wore an expression of absolute frankness. "He never drinks much in the morning; if you have come to talk business with him, do it now. It is the best time. He sometimes comes back drunk in the evening; but just now he passes the greater part of the evening in tears, and reads passages of Holy Scripture aloud, because our mother died five weeks ago." "No doubt he ran off because he did not know what to say to you," said the youth on the divan. "I bet he is trying to cheat you, and is thinking how best to do it." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 118 Just then Lebedeff returned, having put on his coat. "Five weeks!" said he, wiping his eyes. "Only five weeks! Poor orphans!" "But why wear a coat in holes," asked the girl, "when your new one is hanging behind the door? Did you not see it?" "Hold your tongue, dragon-fly!" he scolded. "What a plague you are!" He stamped his foot irritably, but she only laughed, and answered: "Are you trying to frighten me? I am not Tania, you know, and I don't intend to run away. Look, you are waking Lubotchka, and she will have convulsions again. Why do you shout like that?" "Well, well! I won't again," said the master of the house his anxiety getting the better of his temper. He went up to his daughter, and looked at the child in her arms, anxiously making the sign of the cross over her three times. "God bless her! God bless her!" he cried with emotion. "This little creature is my daughter Luboff," addressing the prince. "My wife, Helena, died-- at her birth; and this is my big daughter Vera, in mourning, as you see; and this, this, oh, this pointing to the young man on the divan . . . "Well, go on! never mind me!" mocked the other. "Don't be afraid!" "Excellency! Have you read that account of the murder of the Zemarin family, in the newspaper?" cried Lebedeff, all of a sudden. "Yes," said Muishkin, with some surprise. "Well, that is the murderer! It is he--in fact--" "What do you mean?" asked the visitor. "I am speaking allegorically, of course; but he will be the murderer of a Zemarin family in the future. He is getting ready . .. ." They all laughed, and the thought crossed the prince's mind that perhaps Lebedeff was really trifling in this way because he foresaw inconvenient questions, and wanted to gain time. "He is a traitor! a conspirator!" shouted Lebedeff, who seemed to have lost all control over himself. " A monster! a slanderer! Ought I to treat him as a nephew, the son of my sister Anisia?" "Oh! do be quiet! You must be drunk! He has taken it into his head to play the lawyer, prince, and he practices speechifying, and is always repeating his eloquent pleadings to his children. And who do you think was his last client? An old woman who had been robbed of five hundred roubles, her all, by some rogue of a usurer, besought him to take up her case, instead of which he defended the usurer himself, a Jew named Zeidler, because this Jew promised to give him fifty roubles. . . ." "It was to be fifty if I won the case, only five if I lost," interrupted Lebedeff, speaking in a low tone, a great contrast to his earlier manner. "Well! naturally he came to grief: the law is not administered as it used to be, and he only got laughed at for his pains. But he was much pleased with himself in spite of that. 'Most learned judge!' said he, 'picture this unhappy man, crippled by age and infirmities, who gains his living by honourable toil--picture him, I repeat, robbed of his all, of his last mouthful; remember, I entreat you, the words of that learned legislator, "Let by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 119 mercy and justice alike rule the courts of law."' Now, would you believe it, excellency, every morning he recites this speech to us from beginning to end, exactly as he spoke it before the magistrate. To-day we have heard it for the fifth time. He was just starting again when you arrived, so much does he admire it. He is now preparing to undertake another case. I think, by the way, that you are Prince Muishkin? Colia tells me you are the cleverest man he has ever known. . . ." "The cleverest in the world," interrupted his uncle hastily. "I do not pay much attention to that opinion," continued the young man calmly. "Colia is very fond of you, but he," pointing to Lebedeff, "is flattering you. I can assure you I have no intention of flattering you, or anyone else, but at least you have some common-sense. Well, will you judge between us? Shall we ask the prince to act as arbitrator?" he went on, addressing his uncle. "I am so glad you chanced to come here, prince." "I agree," said Lebedeff, firmly, looking round involuntarily at his daughter, who had come nearer, and was listening attentively to the conversation. "What is it all about?" asked the prince, frowning. His head ached, and he felt sure that Lebedeff was trying to cheat him in some way, and only talking to put off the explanation that he had come for. "I will tell you all the story. I am his nephew; he did speak the truth there, although he is generally telling lies. I am at the University, and have not yet finished my course. I mean to do so, and I shall, for I have a determined character. I must, however, find something to do for the present, and therefore I have got employment on the railway at twenty-four roubles a month. I admit that my uncle has helped me once or twice before. Well, I had twenty roubles in my pocket, and I gambled them away. Can you believe that I should be so low, so base, as to lose money in that way?" "And the man who won it is a rogue, a rogue whom you ought not to have paid!" cried Lebedeff. "Yes, he is a rogue, but I was obliged to pay him," said the young man. "As to his being a rogue, he is assuredly that, and I am not saying it because he beat you. He is an ex-lieutenant, prince, dismissed from the service, a teacher of boxing, and one of Rogojin's followers. They are all lounging about the pavements now that Rogojin has turned them off. Of course, the worst of it is that, knowing he was a rascal, and a card-sharper, I none the less played palki with him, and risked my last rouble. To tell the truth, I thought to myself, 'If I lose, I will go to my uncle, and I am sure he will not refuse to help me.' Now that was base-cowardly and base!" "That is so," observed Lebedeff quietly; "cowardly and base." "Well, wait a bit, before you begin to triumph," said the nephew viciously; for the words seemed to irritate him. "He is delighted! I came to him here and told him everything: I acted honourably, for I did not excuse myself. I spoke most severely of my conduct, as everyone here can witness. But I must smarten myself up before I take up my new post, for I am really like a tramp. Just look at my boots! I cannot possibly appear like this, and if I am not at the bureau at the time appointed, the job will be given to someone else; and I shall have to try for another. Now I only beg for fifteen roubles, and I give my word that I will never ask him for anything again. I am also ready to promise to repay my debt in three months' time, and I will keep my word, even if I have to live on bread and water. My salary will amount to seventy-five roubles in three months. The sum I now ask, added to what I have borrowed already, will make a total of about thirty-five roubles, so you see I shall have enough to pay him and confound him! if he wants interest, he shall have that, too! Haven't I always paid back the money he lent me before? Why should he be so mean now? He grudges my having paid that lieutenant; there can be no other reason! That's the kind he is-- a dog in the manger!" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 120 "And he won't go away!" cried Lebedeff. "He has installed himself here, and here he remains!" "I have told you already, that I will not go away until I have got what I ask. Why are you smiling, prince? You look as if you disapproved of me." "I am not smiling, but I really think you are in the wrong, somewhat," replied Muishkin, reluctantly. "Don't shuffle! Say plainly that you think that I am quite wrong, without any 'somewhat'! Why 'somewhat'?" "I will say you are quite wrong, if you wish." "If I wish! That's good, I must say! Do you think I am deceived as to the flagrant impropriety of my conduct? I am quite aware that his money is his own, and that my action -As much like an attempt at extortion. But you-you don't know what life is! If people don't learn by experience, they never understand. They must be taught. My intentions are perfectly honest; on my conscience he will lose nothing, and I will pay back the money with interest. Added to which he has had the moral satisfaction of seeing me disgraced. What does he want more? and what is he good for if he never helps anyone? Look what he does himself! just ask him about his dealings with others, how he deceives people! How did he manage to buy this house? You may cut off my head if he has not let you in for something-and if he is not trying to cheat you again. You are smiling. You don't believe me?" "It seems to me that all this has nothing to do with your affairs," remarked the prince. "I have lain here now for three days," cried the young man without noticing, "and I have seen a lot! Fancy! he suspects his daughter, that angel, that orphan, my cousin--he suspects her, and every evening he searches her room, to see if she has a lover hidden in it! He comes here too on tiptoe, creeping softly--oh, so softly--and looks under the sofa--my bed, you know. He is mad with suspicion, and sees a thief in every corner. He runs about all night long; he was up at least seven times last night, to satisfy himself that the windows and doors were barred, and to peep into the oven. That man who appears in court for scoundrels, rushes in here in the night and prays, lying prostrate, banging his head on the ground by the half-hour--and for whom do you think he prays? Who are the sinners figuring in his drunken petitions? I have heard him with my own ears praying for the repose of the soul of the Countess du Barry! Colia heard it too. He is as mad as a March hare!" "You hear how he slanders me, prince," said Lebedeff, almost beside himself with rage. "I may be a drunkard, an evil-doer, a thief, but at least I can say one thing for myself. He does not know--how should he, mocker that he is?--that when he came into the world it was I who washed him, and dressed him in his swathing-bands, for my sister Anisia had lost her husband, and was in great poverty. I was very little better off than she, but I sat up night after night with her, and nursed both mother and child; I used to go downstairs and steal wood for them from the house-porter. How often did I sing him to sleep when I was half dead with hunger! In short, I was more than a father to him, and now--now he jeers at me! Even if I did cross myself, and pray for the repose of the soul of the Comtesse du Barry, what does it matter? Three days ago, for the first time in my life, I read her biography in an historical dictionary. Do you know who she was? You there!" addressing his nephew. "Speak! do you know?" "Of course no one knows anything about her but you," muttered the young man in a would-be jeering tone. "She was a Countess who rose from shame to reign like a Queen. An Empress wrote to her, with her own hand, as 'Ma chere cousine.' At a lever-du-roi one morning (do you know what a lever-du-roi was?)--a Cardinal, a Papal legate, offered to put on her stockings; a high and holy person like that looked on it as an honour! Did you know this? I see by your expression that you did not! Well, how did she die? Answer!" "Oh! do stop--you are too absurd!" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 121 "This is how she died. After all this honour and glory, after having been almost a Queen, she was guillotined by that butcher, Samson. She was quite innocent, but it had to be done, for the satisfaction of the fishwives of Paris. She was so terrified, that she did not understand what was happening. But when Samson seized her head, and pushed her under the knife with his foot, she cried out: 'Wait a moment! wait a moment, monsieur!' Well, because of that moment of bitter suffering, perhaps the Saviour will pardon her other faults, for one cannot imagine a greater agony. As I read the story my heart bled for her. And what does it matter to you, little worm, if I implored the Divine mercy for her, great sinner as she was, as I said my evening prayer? I might have done it because I doubted if anyone had ever crossed himself for her sake before. It may be that in the other world she will rejoice to think that a sinner like herself has cried to heaven for the salvation of her soul. Why are you laughing? You believe nothing, atheist! And your story was not even correct! If you had listened to what I was saying, you would have heard that I did not only pray for the Comtesse du Barry. I said, 'Oh Lord! give rest to the soul of that great sinner, the Comtesse du Barry, and to all unhappy ones like her.' You see that is quite a different thing, for how many sinners there are, how many women, who have passed through the trials of this life, are now suffering and groaning in purgatory! I prayed for you, too, in spite of your insolence and impudence, also for your fellows, as it seems that you claim to know how I pray. . ." "Oh! that's enough in all conscience! Pray for whom you choose, and the devil take them and you! We have a scholar here; you did not know that, prince?" he continued, with a sneer. "He reads all sorts of books and memoirs now." "At any rate, your uncle has a kind heart," remarked the prince, who really had to force himself to speak to the nephew, so much did he dislike him. "Oh, now you are going to praise him! He will be set up! He puts his hand on his heart, and he is delighted! I never said he was a man without heart, but he is a rascal--that's the pity of it. And then, he is addicted to drink, and his mind is unhinged, like that of most people who have taken more than is good for them for years. He loves his children--oh, I know that well enough! He respected my aunt, his late wife ... and he even has a sort of affection for me. He has remembered me in his will." "I shall leave you nothing!" exclaimed his uncle angrily. "Listen to me, Lebedeff," said the prince in a decided voice, turning his back on the young man. "I know by experience that when you choose, you can be business-like. . I . I have very little time to spare, and if you ... By the way--excuse me--what is your Christian name? I have forgotten it." "Ti-Ti-Timofey." "And?" "Lukianovitch." Everyone in the room began to laugh. "He is telling lies!" cried the nephew. "Even now he cannot speak the truth. He is not called Timofey Lukianovitch, prince, but Lukian Timofeyovitch. Now do tell us why you must needs lie about it? Lukian or Timofey, it is all the same to you, and what difference can it make to the prince? He tells lies without the least necessity, simply by force of habit, I assure you." "Is that true?" said the prince impatiently. "My name really is Lukian Timofeyovitch," acknowledged Lebedeff, lowering his eyes, and putting his hand on his heart. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 122 "Well, for God's sake, what made you say the other?" "To humble myself," murmured Lebedeff. "What on earth do you mean? Oh I if only I knew where Colia was at this moment!" cried the prince, standing up, as if to go. "I can tell you all about Colia," said the young man "Oh! no, no!" said Lebedeff, hurriedly. "Colia spent the night here, and this morning went after his father, whom you let out of prison by paying his debts--Heaven only knows why! Yesterday the general promised to come and lodge here, but he did not appear. Most probably he slept at the hotel close by. No doubt Colia is there, unless he has gone to Pavlofsk to see the Epanchins. He had a little money, and was intending to go there yesterday. He must be either at the hotel or at Pavlofsk." "At Pavlofsk! He is at Pavlofsk, undoubtedly!" interrupted Lebedeff. . . . "But come--let us go into the garden--we will have coffee there. . . ." And Lebedeff seized the prince's arm, and led him from the room. They went across the yard, and found themselves in a delightful little garden with the trees already in their summer dress of green, thanks to the unusually fine weather. Lebedeff invited his guest to sit down on a green seat before a table of the same colour fixed in the earth, and took a seat facing him. In a few minutes the coffee appeared, and the prince did not refuse it. The host kept his eyes fixed on Muishkin, with an expression of passionate servility. "I knew nothing about your home before," said the prince absently, as if he were thinking of something else. "Poor orphans," began Lebedeff, his face assuming a mournful air, but he stopped short, for the other looked at him inattentively, as if he had already forgotten his own remark. They waited a few minutes in silence, while Lebedeff sat with his eyes fixed mournfully on the young man's face. "Well!" said the latter, at last rousing himself. "Ah! yes! You know why I came, Lebedeff. Your letter brought me. Speak! Tell me all about it." The clerk, rather confused, tried to say something, hesitated, began to speak, and again stopped. The prince looked at him gravely. "I think I understand, Lukian Timofeyovitch: you were not sure that I should come. You did not think I should start at the first word from you, and you merely wrote to relieve your conscience. However, you see now that I have come, and I have had enough of trickery. Give up serving, or trying to serve, two masters. Rogojin has been here these three weeks. Have you managed to sell her to him as you did before? Tell me the truth." "He discovered everything, the monster ... himself ......" "Don't abuse him; though I dare say you have something to complain of. . . ." "He beat me, he thrashed me unmercifully!" replied Lebedeff vehemently. "He set a dog on me in Moscow, a bloodhound, a terrible beast that chased me all down the street." "You seem to take me for a child, Lebedeff. Tell me, is it a fact that she left him while they were in Moscow?" "Yes, it is a fact, and this time, let me tell you, on the very eve of their marriage! It was a question of minutes by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 123 when she slipped off to Petersburg. She came to me directly she arrived-- 'Save me, Lukian! find me some refuge, and say nothing to the prince!' She is afraid of you, even more than she is of him, and in that she shows her wisdom!" And Lebedeff slily put his finger to his brow as he said the last words. "And now it is you who have brought them together again?" "Excellency, how could I, how could I prevent it?" "That will do. I can find out for myself. Only tell me, where is she now? At his house? With him?" "Oh no! Certainly not! 'I am free,' she says; you know how she insists on that point. 'I am entirely free.' She repeats it over and over again. She is living in Petersburgskaia, with my sister- in-law, as I told you in my letter." "She is there at this moment?" "Yes, unless she has gone to Pavlofsk: the fine weather may have tempted her, perhaps, into the country, with Daria Alexeyevna. 'I am quite free,' she says. Only yesterday she boasted of her freedom to Nicolai Ardalionovitch--a bad sign," added Lebedeff, smiling. "Colia goes to see her often, does he not?" "He is a strange boy, thoughtless, and inclined to be indiscreet." "Is it long since you saw her?" "I go to see her every day, every day." "Then you were there yesterday?" "N-no: I have not been these three last days." "It is a pity you have taken too much wine, Lebedeff I want to ask you something ... but. . ." "All right! all right! I am not drunk," replied the clerk, preparing to listen. "Tell me, how was she when you left her?" "She is a woman who is seeking. .. " "Seeking?" "She seems always to be searching about, as if she had lost something. The mere idea of her coming marriage disgusts her; she looks on it as an insult. She cares as much for HIM as for a piece of orange-peel--not more. Yet I am much mistaken if she does not look on him with fear and trembling. She forbids his name to be mentioned before her, and they only meet when unavoidable. He understands, well enough! But it must be gone through She is restless, mocking, deceitful, violent...." "Deceitful and violent?" "Yes, violent. I can give you a proof of it. A few days ago she tried to pull my hair because I said something that annoyed her. I tried to soothe her by reading the Apocalypse aloud." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 124 "What?" exclaimed the prince, thinking he had not heard aright. "By reading the Apocalypse. The lady has a restless imagination, he-he! She has a liking for conversation on serious subjects, of any kind; in fact they please her so much, that it flatters her to discuss them. Now for fifteen years at least I have studied the Apocalypse, and she agrees with me in thinking that the present is the epoch represented by the third horse, the black one whose rider holds a measure in his hand. It seems to me that everything is ruled by measure in our century; all men are clamouring for their rights; 'a measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny.' But, added to this, men desire freedom of mind and body, a pure heart, a healthy life, and all God's good gifts. Now by pleading their rights alone, they will never attain all this, so the white horse, with his rider Death, comes next, and is followed by Hell. We talked about this matter when we met, and it impressed her very much." "Do you believe all this?" asked Muishkin, looking curiously at his companion. "I both believe it and explain it. I am but a poor creature, a beggar, an atom in the scale of humanity. Who has the least respect for Lebedeff? He is a target for all the world, the butt of any fool who chooses to kick him. But in interpreting revelation I am the equal of anyone, great as he may be! Such is the power of the mind and the spirit. I have made a lordly personage tremble, as he sat in his armchair . . . only by talking to him of things concerning the spirit. Two years ago, on Easter Eve, His Excellency Nil Alexeyovitch, whose subordinate I was then, wished to hear what I had to say, and sent a message by Peter Zakkaritch to ask me to go to his private room. 'They tell me you expound the prophecies relating to Antichrist,' said he, when we were alone. 'Is that so?' ' Yes,' I answered unhesitatingly, and I began to give some comments on the Apostle's allegorical vision. At first he smiled, but when we reached the numerical computations and correspondences, he trembled, and turned pale. Then he begged me to close the book, and sent me away, promising to put my name on the reward list. That took place as I said on the eve of Easter, and eight days later his soul returned to God." "What?" "It is the truth. One evening after dinner he stumbled as he stepped out of his carriage. He fell, and struck his head on the curb, and died immediately. He was seventy-three years of age, and had a red face, and white hair; he deluged himself with scent, and was always smiling like a child. Peter Zakkaritch recalled my interview with him, and said, 'YOU FORETOLD HIS DEATH.'" The prince rose from his seat, and Lebedeff, surprised to see his guest preparing to go so soon, remarked: "You are not interested?" in a respectful tone. "I am not very well, and my head aches. Doubtless the effect of the journey," replied the prince, frowning. "You should go into the country," said Lebedeff timidly. The prince seemed to be considering the suggestion. "You see, I am going into the country myself in three days, with my children and belongings. The little one is delicate; she needs change of air; and during our absence this house will be done up. I am going to Pavlofsk." "You are going to Pavlofsk too?" asked the prince sharply. "Everybody seems to be going there. Have you a house in that neighbourhood?" "I don't know of many people going to Pavlofsk, and as for the house, Ivan Ptitsin has let me one of his villas rather cheaply. It is a pleasant place, lying on a hill surrounded by trees, and one can live there for a mere song. There is good music to be heard, so no wonder it is popular. I shall stay in the lodge. As to the villa by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 125 itself. . " "Have you let it?" "N-no--not exactly." "Let it to me," said the prince. Now this was precisely what Lebedeff had made up his mind to do in the last three minutes. Not that he bad any difficulty in finding a tenant; in fact the house was occupied at present by a chance visitor, who had told Lebedeff that he would perhaps take it for the summer months. The clerk knew very well that this "PERHAPS" meant "CERTAINLY," but as he thought he could make more out of a tenant like the prince, he felt justified in speaking vaguely about the present inhabitant's intentions. "This is quite a coincidence," thought he, and when the subject of price was mentioned, he made a gesture with his hand, as if to waive away a question of so little importance. "Oh well, as you like!" said Muishkin. "I will think it over. You shall lose nothing!" They were walking slowly across the garden. "But if you ... I could . . ." stammered Lebedeff, "if...if you please, prince, tell you something on the subject which would interest you, I am sure." He spoke in wheedling tones, and wriggled as he walked along. Muishkin stopped short. "Daria Alexeyevna also has a villa at Pavlofsk." "Well?" "A certain person is very friendly with her, and intends to visit her pretty often." Well?" "Aglaya Ivanovna..." "Oh stop, Lebedeff!" interposed Muishkin, feeling as if he had been touched on an open wound. "That ... that has nothing to do with me. I should like to know when you are going to start. The sooner the better as far as I am concerned, for I am at an hotel." They had left the garden now, and were crossing the yard on their way to the gate. "Well, leave your hotel at once and come here; then we can all go together to Pavlofsk the day after tomorrow." "I will think about it," said the prince dreamily, and went off. The clerk stood looking after his guest, struck by his sudden absent-mindedness. He had not even remembered to say goodbye, and Lebedeff was the more surprised at the omission, as he knew by experience how courteous the prince usually was. III by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 126 It was now close on twelve o'clock. The prince knew that if he called at the Epanchins' now he would only find the general, and that the latter might probably carry him straight off to Pavlofsk with him; whereas there was one visit he was most anxious to make without delay. So at the risk of missing General Epanchin altogether, and thus postponing his visit to Pavlofsk for a day, at least, the prince decided to go and look for the house he desired to find. The visit he was about to pay was, in some respects, a risky one. He was in two minds about it, but knowing that the house was in the Gorohovaya, not far from the Sadovaya, he determined to go in that direction, and to try to make up his mind on the way. Arrived at the point where the Gorohovaya crosses the Sadovaya, he was surprised to find how excessively agitated he was. He had no idea that his heart could beat so painfully. One house in the Gorohovaya began to attract his attention long before he reached it, and the prince remembered afterwards that he had said to himself: "That is the house, I'm sure of it." He came up to it quite curious to discover whether he had guessed right, and felt that he would be disagreeably impressed to find that he had actually done so. The house was a large gloomy- looking structure, without the slightest claim to architectural beauty, in colour a dirty green. There are a few of these old houses, built towards the end of the last century, still standing in that part of St. Petersburg, and showing little change from their original form and colour. They are solidly built, and are remarkable for the thickness of their walls, and for the fewness of their windows, many of which are covered by gratings. On the ground-floor there is usually a money-changer's shop, and the owner lives over it. Without as well as within, the houses seem inhospitable and mysterious--an impression which is difficult to explain, unless it has something to do with the actual architectural style. These houses are almost exclusively inhabited by the merchant class. Arrived at the gate, the prince looked up at the legend over it, which ran: "House of Rogojin, hereditary and honourable citizen." He hesitated no longer; but opened the glazed door at the bottom of the outer stairs and made his way up to the second storey. The place was dark and gloomy-looking; the walls of the stone staircase were painted a dull red. Rogojin and his mother and brother occupied the whole of the second floor. The servant who opened the door to Muishkin led him, without taking his name, through several rooms and up and down many steps until they arrived at a door, where he knocked. Parfen Rogojin opened the door himself. On seeing the prince he became deadly white, and apparently fixed to the ground, so that he was more like a marble statue than a human being. The prince had expected some surprise, but Rogojin evidently considered his visit an impossible and miraculous event. He stared with an expression almost of terror, and his lips twisted into a bewildered smile. "Parfen! perhaps my visit is ill-timed. I-I can go away again if you like," said Muishkin at last, rather embarrassed. "No, no; it's all right, come in," said Parfen, recollecting himself. They were evidently on quite familiar terms. In Moscow they had had many occasions of meeting; indeed, some few of those meetings were but too vividly impressed upon their memories. They had not met now, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 127 however, for three months. The deathlike pallor, and a sort of slight convulsion about the lips, had not left Rogojin's face. Though he welcomed his guest, he was still obviously much disturbed. As he invited the prince to sit down near the table, the latter happened to turn towards him, and was startled by the strange expression on his face. A painful recollection flashed into his mind. He stood for a time, looking straight at Rogojin, whose eyes seemed to blaze like fire. At last Rogojin smiled, though he still looked agitated and shaken. "What are you staring at me like that for?" he muttered. "Sit down." The prince took a chair. "Parfen," he said, "tell me honestly, did you know that I was coming to Petersburg or no?" "Oh, I supposed you were coming," the other replied, smiling sarcastically, and I was right in my supposition, you see; but how was I to know that you would come TODAY?" A certain strangeness and impatience in his manner impressed the prince very forcibly. "And if you had known that I was coming today, why be so irritated about it?" he asked, in quiet surprise. "Why did you ask me?" "Because when I jumped out of the train this morning, two eyes glared at me just as yours did a moment since." "Ha! and whose eyes may they have been?" said Rogojin, suspiciously. It seemed to the prince that he was trembling. "I don't know; I thought it was a hallucination. I often have hallucinations nowadays. I feel just as I did five years ago when my fits were about to come on." "Well, perhaps it was a hallucination, I don't know," said Parfen. He tried to give the prince an affectionate smile, and it seemed to the latter as though in this smile of his something had broken, and that he could not mend it, try as he would. "Shall you go abroad again then?" he asked, and suddenly added, "Do you remember how we came up in the train from Pskoff together? You and your cloak and leggings, eh?" And Rogojin burst out laughing, this time with unconcealed malice, as though he were glad that he had been able to find an opportunity for giving vent to it. "Have you quite taken up your quarters here?" asked the prince "Yes, I'm at home. Where else should I go to?" "We haven't met for some time. Meanwhile I have heard things about you which I should not have believed to be possible." "What of that? People will say anything," said Rogojin drily. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 128 "At all events, you've disbanded your troop--and you are living in your own house instead of being fast and loose about the place; that's all very good. Is this house all yours, or joint property?" "It is my mother's. You get to her apartments by that passage." "Where's your brother?" "In the other wing." "Is he married?" "Widower. Why do you want to know all this?" The prince looked at him, but said nothing. He had suddenly relapsed into musing, and had probably not heard the question at all. Rogojin did not insist upon an answer, and there was silence for a few moments. "I guessed which was your house from a hundred yards off," said the prince at last. "Why so?" "I don't quite know. Your house has the aspect of yourself and all your family; it bears the stamp of the Rogojin life; but ask me why I think so, and I can tell you nothing. It is nonsense, of course. I am nervous about this kind of thing troubling me so much. I had never before imagined what sort of a house you would live in, and yet no sooner did I set eyes on this one than I said to myself that it must be yours." "Really!" said Rogojin vaguely, not taking in what the prince meant by his rather obscure remarks. The room they were now sitting in was a large one, lofty but dark, well furnished, principally with writing-tables and desks covered with papers and books. A wide sofa covered with red morocco evidently served Rogojin for a bed. On the table beside which the prince had been invited to seat himself lay some books; one containing a marker where the reader had left off, was a volume of Solovieff's History. Some oil-paintings in worn gilded frames hung on the walls, but it was impossible to make out what subjects they represented, so blackened were they by smoke and age. One, a life-sized portrait, attracted the prince's attention. It showed a man of about fifty, wearing a long riding- coat of German cut. He had two medals on his breast; his beard was white, short and thin; his face yellow and wrinkled, with a sly, suspicious expression in the eyes. "That is your father, is it not?" asked the prince. "Yes, it is," replied Rogojin with an unpleasant smile, as if he had expected his guest to ask the question, and then to make some disagreeable remark. "Was he one of the Old Believers?" "No, he went to church, but to tell the truth he really preferred the old religion. This was his study and is now mine. Why did you ask if he were an Old Believer?" "Are you going to be married here?" "Ye-yes!" replied Rogojin, starting at the unexpected question. "Soon?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 129 "You know yourself it does not depend on me." "Parfen, I am not your enemy, and I do not intend to oppose your intentions in any way. I repeat this to you now just as I said it to you once before on a very similar occasion. When you were arranging for your projected marriage in Moscow, I did not interfere with you--you know I did not. That first time she fled to me from you, from the very altar almost, and begged me to 'save her from you.' Afterwards she ran away from me again, and you found her and arranged your marriage with her once more; and now, I hear, she has run away from you and come to Petersburg. Is it true? Lebedeff wrote me to this effect, and that's why I came here. That you had once more arranged matters with Nastasia Philipovna I only learned last night in the train from a friend of yours, Zaleshoff--if you wish to know. "I confess I came here with an object. I wished to persuade Nastasia to go abroad for her health; she requires it. Both mind and body need a change badly. I did not intend to take her abroad myself. I was going to arrange for her to go without me. Now I tell you honestly, Parfen, if it is true that all is made up between you, I will not so much as set eyes upon her, and I will never even come to see you again. "You know quite well that I am telling the truth, because I have always been frank with you. I have never concealed my own opinion from you. I have always told you that I consider a marriage between you and her would be ruin to her. You would also be ruined, and perhaps even more hopelessly. If this marriage were to be broken off again, I admit I should be greatly pleased; but at the same time I have not the slightest intention of trying to part you. You may be quite easy in your mind, and you need not suspect me. You know yourself whether I was ever really your rival or not, even when she ran away and came to me. "There, you are laughing at me--I know why you laugh. It is perfectly true that we lived apart from one another all the time, in different towns. I told you before that I did not love her with love, but with pity! You said then that you understood me; did you really understand me or not? What hatred there is in your eyes at this moment! I came to relieve your mind, because you are dear to me also. I love you very much, Parfen; and now I shall go away and never come back again. Goodbye." The prince rose. "Stay a little," said Parfen, not leaving his chair and resting his head on his right hand. "I haven't seen you for a long time." The prince sat down again. Both were silent for a few moments. "When you are not with me I hate you, Lef Nicolaievitch. I have loathed you every day of these three months since I last saw you. By heaven I have!" said Rogojin." I could have poisoned you at any minute. Now, you have been with me but a quarter of an hour, and all my malice seems to have melted away, and you are as dear to me as ever. Stay here a little longer." "When I am with you you trust me; but as soon as my back is turned you suspect me," said the prince, smiling, and trying to hide his emotion. "I trust your voice, when I hear you speak. I quite understand that you and I cannot be put on a level, of course." "Why did you add that?--There! Now you are cross again," said the prince, wondering. "We were not asked, you see. We were made different, with different tastes and feelings, without being consulted. You say you love her with pity. I have no pity for her. She hates me-- that's the plain truth of the matter. I dream of her every night, and always that she is laughing at me with another man. And so she does by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 130 laugh at me. She thinks no more of marrying me than if she were changing her shoe. Would you believe it, I haven't seen her for five days, and I daren't go near her. She asks me what I come for, as if she were not content with having disgraced me--" "Disgraced you! How?" "Just as though you didn't know! Why, she ran away from me, and went to you. You admitted it yourself, just now." "But surely you do not believe that she..." "That she did not disgrace me at Moscow with that officer. Zemtuznikoff? I know for certain she did, after having fixed our marriage-day herself!" "Impossible!" cried the prince. "I know it for a fact," replied Rogojin, with conviction. "It is not like her, you say? My friend, that's absurd. Perhaps such an act would horrify her, if she were with you, but it is quite different where I am concerned. She looks on me as vermin. Her affair with Keller was simply to make a laughing-stock of me. You don't know what a fool she made of me in Moscow; and the money I spent over her! The money! the money!" "And you can marry her now, Parfen! What will come of it all?" said the prince, with dread in his voice. Rogojin gazed back gloomily, and with a terrible expression in his eyes, but said nothing. "I haven't been to see her for five days," he repeated, after a slight pause. "I'm afraid of being turned out. She says she's still her own mistress, and may turn me off altogether, and go abroad. She told me this herself," he said, with a peculiar glance at Muishkin. "I think she often does it merely to frighten me. She is always laughing at me, for some reason or other; but at other times she's angry, and won't say a word, and that's what I'm afraid of. I took her a shawl one day, the like of which she might never have seen, although she did live in luxury and she gave it away to her maid, Katia. Sometimes when I can keep away no longer, I steal past the house on the sly, and once I watched at the gate till dawn--I thought something was going on--and she saw me from the window. She asked me what I should do if I found she had deceived me. I said, 'You know well enough.'" "What did she know?" cried the prince. "How was I to tell?" replied Rogojin, with an angry laugh. "I did my best to catch her tripping in Moscow, but did not succeed. However, I caught hold of her one day, and said: 'You are engaged to be married into a respectable family, and do you know what sort of a woman you are? THAT'S the sort of woman you are,' I said." "You told her that?" "Yes." "Well, go on." "She said, 'I wouldn't even have you for a footman now, much less for a husband.' 'I shan't leave the house,' I said, 'so it doesn't matter.' 'Then I shall call somebody and have you kicked out,' she cried. So then I rushed at by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 131 her, and beat her till she was bruised all over." "Impossible!" cried the prince, aghast. "I tell you it's true," said Rogojin quietly, but with eyes ablaze with passion. "Then for a day and a half I neither slept, nor ate, nor drank, and would not leave her. I knelt at her feet: 'I shall die here,' I said, 'if you don't forgive me; and if you have me turned out, I shall drown myself; because, what should I be without you now?' She was like a madwoman all that day; now she would cry; now she would threaten me with a knife; now she would abuse me. She called in Zaleshoff and Keller, and showed me to them, shamed me in their presence. 'Let's all go to the theatre,' she says, 'and leave him here if he won't go--it's not my business. They'll give you some tea, Parfen Semeonovitch, while I am away, for you must be hungry.' She came back from the theatre alone. 'Those cowards wouldn't come,' she said. 'They are afraid of you, and tried to frighten me, too. "He won't go away as he came," they said, "he'll cut your throat--see if he doesn't." Now, I shall go to my bedroom, and I shall not even lock my door, just to show you how much I am afraid of you. You must be shown that once for all. Did you have tea?' 'No,' I said, 'and I don't intend to.' 'Ha, ha! you are playing off your pride against your stomach! That sort of heroism doesn't sit well on you,' she said. "With that she did as she had said she would; she went to bed, and did not lock her door. In the morning she came out. 'Are you quite mad?' she said, sharply. 'Why, you'll die of hunger like this.' 'Forgive me,' I said. 'No, I won't, and I won't marry you. I've said it. Surely you haven't sat in this chair all night without sleeping?' 'I didn't sleep,' I said. 'H'm! how sensible of you. And are you going to have no breakfast or dinner today?' 'I told you I wouldn't. Forgive me!' 'You've no idea how unbecoming this sort of thing is to you,' she said, 'it's like putting a saddle on a cow's back. Do you think you are frightening me? My word, what a dreadful thing that you should sit here and eat no food! How terribly frightened I am!' She wasn't angry long, and didn't seem to remember my offence at all. I was surprised, for she is a vindictive, resentful woman--but then I thought that perhaps she despised me too much to feel any resentment against me. And that's the truth. "She came up to me and said, 'Do you know who the Pope of Rome is?' 'I've heard of him,' I said. 'I suppose you've read the Universal History, Parfen Semeonovitch, haven't you?' she asked. 'I've learned nothing at all,' I said. 'Then I'll lend it to you to read. You must know there was a Roman Pope once, and he was very angry with a certain Emperor; so the Emperor came and neither ate nor drank, but knelt before the Pope's palace till he should be forgiven. And what sort of vows do you think that Emperor was making during all those days on his knees? Stop, I'll read it to you!' Then she read me a lot of verses, where it said that the Emperor spent all the time vowing vengeance against the Pope. 'You don't mean to say you don't approve of the poem, Parfen Semeonovitch,' she says. 'All you have read out is perfectly true,' say I. 'Aha!' says she, 'you admit it's true, do you? And you are making vows to yourself that if I marry you, you will remind me of all this, and take it out of me.' 'I don't know,' I say, 'perhaps I was thinking like that, and perhaps I was not. I'm not thinking of anything just now.' 'What are your thoughts, then?' 'I'm thinking that when you rise from your chair and go past me, I watch you, and follow you with my eyes; if your dress does but rustle, my heart sinks; if you leave the room, I remember every little word and action, and what your voice sounded like, and what you said. I thought of nothing all last night, but sat here listening to your sleeping breath, and heard you move a little, twice.' 'And as for your attack upon me,' she says, 'I suppose you never once thought of THAT?' 'Perhaps I did think of it, and perhaps not,' I say. And what if I don't either forgive you or marry, you' 'I tell you I shall go and drown myself.' 'H'm!' she said, and then relapsed into silence. Then she got angry, and went out. 'I suppose you'd murder me before you drowned yourself, though!' she cried as she left the room. "An hour later, she came to me again, looking melancholy. 'I will marry you, Parfen Semeonovitch,' she says, not because I'm frightened of you, but because it's all the same to me how I ruin myself. And how can I do it better? Sit down; they'll bring you some dinner directly. And if I do marry you, I'll be a faithful wife to you--you need not doubt that.' Then she thought a bit, and said, 'At all events, you are not a flunkey; at first, I by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 132 thought you were no better than a flunkey.' And she arranged the wedding and fixed the day straight away on the spot. "Then, in another week, she had run away again, and came here to Lebedeff's; and when I found her here, she said to me, 'I'm not going to renounce you altogether, but I wish to put off the wedding a bit longer yet--just as long as I like--for I am still my own mistress; so you may wait, if you like.' That's how the matter stands between us now. What do you think of all this, Lef Nicolaievitch?" "'What do you think of it yourself?" replied the prince, looking sadly at Rogojin. "As if I can think anything about it! I--" He was about to say more, but stopped in despair. The prince rose again, as if he would leave. "At all events, I shall not interfere with you!" he murmured, as though making answer to some secret thought of his own. "I'll tell you what!" cried Rogojin, and his eyes flashed fire. "I can't understand your yielding her to me like this; I don't understand it. Have you given up loving her altogether? At first you suffered badly--I know it--I saw it. Besides, why did you come post-haste after us? Out of pity, eh? He, he, he!" His mouth curved in a mocking smile. "Do you think I am deceiving you?" asked the prince. "No! I trust you--but I can't understand. It seems to me that your pity is greater than my love." A hungry longing to speak his mind out seemed to flash in the man's eyes, combined with an intense anger. "Your love is mingled with hatred, and therefore, when your love passes, there will be the greater misery," said the prince. "I tell you this, Parfen--" "What! that I'll cut her throat, you mean?" The prince shuddered. "You'll hate her afterwards for all your present love, and for all the torment you are suffering on her account now. What seems to me the most extraordinary thing is, that she can again consent to marry you, after all that has passed between you. When I heard the news yesterday, I could hardly bring myself to believe it. Why, she has run twice from you, from the very altar rails, as it were. She must have some presentiment of evil. What can she want with you now? Your money? Nonsense! Besides, I should think you must have made a fairly large hole in your fortune already. Surely it is not because she is so very anxious to find a husband? She could find many a one besides yourself. Anyone would be better than you, because you will murder her, and I feel sure she must know that but too well by now. Is it because you love her so passionately? Indeed, that may be it. I have heard that there are women who want just that kind of love ... but still ..." The prince paused, reflectively. "What are you grinning at my father's portrait again for?" asked Rogojin, suddenly. He was carefully observing every change in the expression of the prince's face. "I smiled because the idea came into my head that if it were not for this unhappy passion of yours you might have, and would have, become just such a man as your father, and that very quickly, too. You'd have settled down in this house of yours with some silent and obedient wife. You would have spoken rarely, trusted no one, heeded no one, and thought of nothing but making money." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 133 "Laugh away! She said exactly the same, almost word for word, when she saw my father's portrait. It's remarkable how entirely you and she are at one now-a-days." "What, has she been here?" asked the prince with curiosity. "Yes! She looked long at the portrait and asked all about my father. 'You'd be just such another,' she said at last, and laughed. 'You have such strong passions, Parfen,' she said, 'that they'd have taken you to Siberia in no time if you had not, luckily, intelligence as well. For you have a good deal of intelligence.' (She said this--believe it or not. The first time I ever heard anything of that sort from her.) 'You'd soon have thrown up all this rowdyism that you indulge in now, and you'd have settled down to quiet, steady money-making, because you have little education; and here you'd have stayed just like your father before you. And you'd have loved your money so that you'd amass not two million, like him, but ten million; and you'd have died of hunger on your money bags to finish up with, for you carry everything to extremes.' There, that's exactly word for word as she said it to me. She never talked to me like that before. She always talks nonsense and laughs when she's with me. We went all over this old house together. 'I shall change all this,' I said, 'or else I'll buy a new house for the wedding.' 'No, no!' she said, 'don't touch anything; leave it all as it is; I shall live with your mother when I marry you.' "I took her to see my mother, and she was as respectful and kind as though she were her own daughter. Mother has been almost demented ever since father died--she's an old woman. She sits and bows from her chair to everyone she sees. If you left her alone and didn't feed her for three days, I don't believe she would notice it. Well, I took her hand, and I said, 'Give your blessing to this lady, mother, she's going to be my wife.' So Nastasia kissed mother's hand with great feeling. 'She must have suffered terribly, hasn't she?' she said. She saw this book here lying before me. 'What! have you begun to read Russian history?' she asked. She told me once in Moscow, you know, that I had better get Solovieff's Russian History and read it, because I knew nothing. 'That's good,' she said, 'you go on like that, reading books. I'll make you a list myself of the books you ought to read first--shall I?' She had never once spoken to me like this before; it was the first time I felt I could breathe before her like a living creature." "I'm very, very glad to hear of this, Parfen," said the prince, with real feeling. "Who knows? Maybe God will yet bring you near to one another." "Never, never!" cried Rogojin, excitedly. "Look here, Parfen; if you love her so much, surely you must be anxious to earn her respect? And if you do so wish, surely you may hope to? I said just now that I considered it extraordinary that she could still be ready to marry you. Well, though I cannot yet understand it, I feel sure she must have some good reason, or she wouldn't do it. She is sure of your love; but besides that, she must attribute SOMETHING else to you--some good qualities, otherwise the thing would not be. What you have just said confirms my words. You say yourself that she found it possible to speak to you quite differently from her usual manner. You are suspicious, you know, and jealous, therefore when anything annoying happens to you, you exaggerate its significance. Of course, of course, she does not think so ill of you as you say. Why, if she did, she would simply be walking to death by drowning or by the knife, with her eyes wide open, when she married you. It is impossible! As if anybody would go to their death deliberately!" Rogojin listened to the prince's excited words with a bitter smile. His conviction was, apparently, unalterable. "How dreadfully you look at me, Parfen!" said the prince, with a feeling of dread. "Water or the knife?" said the latter, at last. "Ha, ha--that's exactly why she is going to marry me, because she knows for certain that the knife awaits her. Prince, can it be that you don't even yet see what's at the root of it all?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 134 "I don't understand you." "Perhaps he really doesn't understand me! They do say that you are a--you know what! She loves another--there, you can understand that much! Just as I love her, exactly so she loves another man. And that other man is--do you know who? It's you. There--you didn't know that, eh?" "I?" "You, you! She has loved you ever since that day, her birthday! Only she thinks she cannot marry you, because it would be the ruin of you. 'Everybody knows what sort of a woman I am,' she says. She told me all this herself, to my very face! She's afraid of disgracing and ruining you, she says, but it doesn't matter about me. She can marry me all right! Notice how much consideration she shows for me!" "But why did she run away to me, and then again from me to--" "From you to me? Ha, ha! that's nothing! Why, she always acts as though she were in a delirium now-a-days! Either she says, 'Come on, I'll marry you! Let's have the wedding quickly!' and fixes the day, and seems in a hurry for it, and when it begins to come near she feels frightened; or else some other idea gets into her head--goodness knows! you've seen her--you know how she goes on-- laughing and crying and raving! There's nothing extraordinary about her having run away from you! She ran away because she found out how dearly she loved you. She could not bear to be near you. You said just now that I had found her at Moscow, when she ran away from you. I didn't do anything of the sort; she came to me herself, straight from you. 'Name the day--I'm ready!' she said. 'Let's have some champagne, and go and hear the gipsies sing!' I tell you she'd have thrown herself into the water long ago if it were not for me! She doesn't do it because I am, perhaps, even more dreadful to her than the water! She's marrying me out of spite; if she marries me, I tell you, it will be for spite!" "But how do you, how can you--" began the prince, gazing with dread and horror at Rogojin. "Why don't you finish your sentence? Shall I tell you what you were thinking to yourself just then? You were thinking, 'How can she marry him after this? How can it possibly be permitted?' Oh, I know what you were thinking about!" "I didn't come here for that purpose, Parfen. That was not in my mind--" "That may be! Perhaps you didn't COME with the idea, but the idea is certainly there NOW! Ha, ha! well, that's enough! What are you upset about? Didn't you really know it all before? You astonish me!" "All this is mere jealousy--it is some malady of yours, Parfen! You exaggerate everything," said the prince, excessively agitated. "What are you doing?" "Let go of it!" said Parfen, seizing from the prince's hand a knife which the latter had at that moment taken up from the table, where it lay beside the history. Parfen replaced it where it had been. "I seemed to know it--I felt it, when I was coming back to Petersburg," continued the prince, "I did not want to come, I wished to forget all this, to uproot it from my memory altogether! Well, good-bye--what is the matter?" He had absently taken up the knife a second time, and again Rogojin snatched it from his hand, and threw it down on the table. It was a plainlooking knife, with a bone handle, a blade about eight inches long, and broad in proportion, it did not clasp. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 135 Seeing that the prince was considerably struck by the fact that he had twice seized this knife out of his hand, Rogojin caught it up with some irritation, put it inside the book, and threw the latter across to another table. "Do you cut your pages with it, or what?" asked Muishkin, still rather absently, as though unable to throw off a deep preoccupation into which the conversation had thrown him. "Yes." "It's a garden knife, isn't it?" "Yes. Can't one cut pages with a garden knife?" "It's quite new." "Well, what of that? Can't I buy a new knife if I like?" shouted Rogojin furiously, his irritation growing with every word. The prince shuddered, and gazed fixedly at Parfen. Suddenly he burst out laughing. "Why, what an idea!" he said. "I didn't mean to ask you any of these questions; I was thinking of something quite different! But my head is heavy, and I seem so absent-minded nowadays! Well, good-bye--I can't remember what I wanted to say--good-bye!" "Not that way," said Rogojin. "There, I've forgotten that too!" "This way--come along--I'll show you." IV. THEY passed through the same rooms which the prince had traversed on his arrival. In the largest there were pictures on the walls, portraits and landscapes of little interest. Over the door, however, there was one of strange and rather striking shape; it was six or seven feet in length, and not more than a foot in height. It represented the Saviour just taken from the cross. The prince glanced at it, but took no further notice. He moved on hastily, as though anxious to get out of the house. But Rogojin suddenly stopped underneath the picture. "My father picked up all these pictures very cheap at auctions, and so on," he said; "they are all rubbish, except the one over the door, and that is valuable. A man offered five hundred roubles for it last week." "Yes--that's a copy of a Holbein," said the prince, looking at it again, "and a good copy, too, so far as I am able to judge. I saw the picture abroad, and could not forget it--what's the matter?" Rogojin had dropped the subject of the picture and walked on. Of course his strange frame of mind was sufficient to account for his conduct; but, still, it seemed queer to the prince that he should so abruptly drop a conversation commenced by himself. Rogojin did not take any notice of his question. "Lef Nicolaievitch," said Rogojin, after a pause, during which the two walked along a little further, "I have long wished to ask you, do you believe in God?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 136 "How strangely you speak, and how odd you look!" said the other, involuntarily. "I like looking at that picture," muttered Rogojin, not noticing, apparently, that the prince had not answered his question. "That picture! That picture!" cried Muishkin, struck by a sudden idea. "Why, a man's faith might be ruined by looking at that picture!" "So it is!" said Rogojin, unexpectedly. They had now reached the front door. The prince stopped. "How?" he said. "What do you mean? I was half joking, and you took me up quite seriously! Why do you ask me whether I believe in God "Oh, no particular reason. I meant to ask you before--many people are unbelievers nowadays, especially Russians, I have been told. You ought to know--you've lived abroad." Rogojin laughed bitterly as he said these words, and opening the door, held it for the prince to pass out. Muishkin looked surprised, but went out. The other followed him as far as the landing of the outer stairs, and shut the door behind him. They both now stood facing one another, as though oblivious of where they were, or what they had to do next. "Well, good-bye!" said the prince, holding out his hand. "Good-bye," said Rogojin, pressing it hard, but quite mechanically. The prince made one step forward, and then turned round. "As to faith," he said, smiling, and evidently unwilling to leave Rogojin in this state--"as to faith, I had four curious conversations in two days, a week or so ago. One morning I met a man in the train, and made acquaintance with him at once. I had often heard of him as a very learned man, but an atheist; and I was very glad of the opportunity of conversing with so eminent and clever a person. He doesn't believe in God, and he talked a good deal about it, but all the while it appeared to me that he was speaking OUTSIDE THE SUBJECT. And it has always struck me, both in speaking to such men and in reading their books, that they do not seem really to be touching on that at all, though on the surface they may appear to do so. I told him this, but I dare say I did not clearly express what I meant, for he could not understand me. "That same evening I stopped at a small provincial hotel, and it so happened that a dreadful murder had been committed there the night before, and everybody was talking about it. Two peasants-- elderly men and old friends--had had tea together there the night before, and were to occupy the same bedroom. They were not drunk but one of them had noticed for the first time that his friend possessed a silver watch which he was wearing on a chain. He was by no means a thief, and was, as peasants go, a rich man; but this watch so fascinated him that he could not restrain himself. He took a knife, and when his friend turned his back, he came up softly behind, raised his eyes to heaven, crossed himself, and saying earnestly--'God forgive me, for Christ's sake!' he cut his friend's throat like a sheep, and took the watch." Rogojin roared with laughter. He laughed as though he were in a sort of fit. It was strange to see him laughing so after the sombre mood he had been in just before. "Oh, I like that! That beats anything!" he cried convulsively, panting for breath. "One is an absolute unbeliever; the other is such a thorough--going believer that he murders his friend to the tune of a prayer! Oh, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 137 prince, prince, that's too good for anything! You can't have invented it. It's the best thing I've heard!" "Next morning I went out for a stroll through the town," continued the prince, so soon as Rogojin was a little quieter, though his laughter still burst out at intervals, "and soon observed a drunken-looking soldier staggering about the pavement. He came up to me and said, 'Buy my silver cross, sir! You shall have it for fourpence--it's real silver.' I looked, and there he held a cross, just taken off his own neck, evidently, a large tin one, made after the Byzantine pattern. I fished out fourpence, and put his cross on my own neck, and I could see by his face that he was as pleased as he could be at the thought that he had succeeded in cheating a foolish gentleman, and away he went to drink the value of his cross. At that time everything that I saw made a tremendous impression upon me. I had understood nothing about Russia before, and had only vague and fantastic memories of it. So I thought, 'I will wait awhile before I condemn this Judas. Only God knows what may be hidden in the hearts of drunkards.' "Well, I went homewards, and near the hotel I came across a poor woman, carrying a child--a baby of some six weeks old. The mother was quite a girl herself. The baby was smiling up at her, for the first time in its life, just at that moment; and while I watched the woman she suddenly crossed herself, oh, so devoutly! 'What is it, my good woman I asked her. (I was never but asking questions then!) Exactly as is a mother's joy when her baby smiles for the first time into her eyes, so is God's joy when one of His children turns and prays to Him for the first time, with all his heart!' This is what that poor woman said to me, almost word for word; and such a deep, refined, truly religious thought it was--a thought in which the whole essence of Christianity was expressed in one flash--that is, the recognition of God as our Father, and of God's joy in men as His own children, which is the chief idea of Christ. She was a simple country-woman--a mother, it's true-- and perhaps, who knows, she may have been the wife of the drunken soldier! "Listen, Parfen; you put a question to me just now. This is my reply. The essence of religious feeling has nothing to do with reason, or atheism, or crime, or acts of any kind--it has nothing to do with these things--and never had. There is something besides all this, something which the arguments of the atheists can never touch. But the principal thing, and the conclusion of my argument, is that this is most clearly seen in the heart of a Russian. This is a conviction which I have gained while I have been in this Russia of ours. Yes, Parfen! there is work to be done; there is work to be done in this Russian world! Remember what talks we used to have in Moscow! And I never wished to come here at all; and I never thought to meet you like this, Parfen! Well, well--good-bye--good-bye! God be with you!" He turned and went downstairs. "Lef Nicolaievitch!" cried Parfen, before he had reached the next landing. "Have you got that cross you bought from the soldier with you?" "Yes, I have," and the prince stopped again. "Show it me, will you?" A new fancy! The prince reflected, and then mounted the stairs once more. He pulled out the cross without taking it off his neck. "Give it to me," said Parfen. "Why? do you--" The prince would rather have kept this particular cross. "I'll wear it; and you shall have mine. I'll take it off at once." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 138 "You wish to exchange crosses? Very well, Parfen, if that's the case, I'm glad enough--that makes us brothers, you know." The prince took off his tin cross, Parfen his gold one, and the exchange was made. Parfen was silent. With sad surprise the prince observed that the look of distrust, the bitter, ironical smile, had still not altogether left his newly-adopted brother's face. At moments, at all events, it showed itself but too plainly, At last Rogojin took the prince's hand, and stood so for some moments, as though he could not make up his mind. Then he drew him along, murmuring almost inaudibly, "Come!" They stopped on the landing, and rang the bell at a door opposite to Parfen's own lodging. An old woman opened to them and bowed low to Parfen, who asked her some questions hurriedly, but did not wait to hear her answer. He led the prince on through several dark, cold-looking rooms, spotlessly clean, with white covers over all the furniture. Without the ceremony of knocking, Parfen entered a small apartment, furnished like a drawing-room, but with a polished mahogany partition dividing one half of it from what was probably a bedroom. In one corner of this room sat an old woman in an arm- chair, close to the stove. She did not look very old, and her face was a pleasant, round one; but she was white-haired and, as one could detect at the first glance, quite in her second childhood. She wore a black woollen dress, with a black handkerchief round her neck and shoulders, and a white cap with black ribbons. Her feet were raised on a footstool. Beside her sat another old woman, also dressed in mourning, and silently knitting a stocking; this was evidently a companion. They both looked as though they never broke the silence. The first old woman, so soon as she saw Rogojin and the prince, smiled and bowed courteously several times, in token of her gratification at their visit. "Mother," said Rogojin, kissing her hand, "here is my great friend, Prince Muishkin; we have exchanged crosses; he was like a real brother to me at Moscow at one time, and did a great deal for me. Bless him, mother, as you would bless your own son. Wait a moment, let me arrange your hands for you." But the old lady, before Parfen had time to touch her, raised her right hand, and, with three fingers held up, devoutly made the sign of the cross three times over the prince. She then nodded her head kindly at him once more. "There, come along, Lef Nicolaievitch; that's all I brought you here for," said Rogojin. When they reached the stairs again he added: "She understood nothing of what I said to her, and did not know what I wanted her to do, and yet she blessed you; that shows she wished to do so herself. Well, goodbye; it's time you went, and I must go too." He opened his own door. "Well, let me at least embrace you and say goodbye, you strange fellow!" cried the prince, looking with gentle reproach at Rogojin, and advancing towards him. But the latter had hardly raised his arms when he dropped them again. He could not make up his mind to it; he turned away from the prince in order to avoid looking at him. He could not embrace him. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 139 "Don't be afraid," he muttered, indistinctly, "though I have taken your cross, I shall not murder you for your watch." So saying, he laughed suddenly, and strangely. Then in a moment his face became transfigured; he grew deadly white, his lips trembled, his eves burned like fire. He stretched out his arms and held the prince tightly to him, and said in a strangled voice: "Well, take her! It's Fate! She's yours. I surrender her.... Remember Rogojin!" And pushing the prince from him, without looking back at him, he hurriedly entered his own flat, and banged the door. V. IT was late now, nearly half-past two, and the prince did not find General Epanchin at home. He left a card, and determined to look up Colia, who had a room at a small hotel near. Colia was not in, but he was informed that he might be back shortly, and had left word that if he were not in by half-past three it was to be understood that he had gone to Pavlofsk to General Epanchin's, and would dine there. The prince decided to wait till half-past three, and ordered some dinner. At half-past three there was no sign of Colia. The prince waited until four o'clock, and then strolled off mechanically wherever his feet should carry him. In early summer there are often magnificent days in St. Petersburg--bright, hot and still. This happened to be such a day. For some time the prince wandered about without aim or object. He did not know the town well. He stopped to look about him on bridges, at street corners. He entered a confectioner's shop to rest, once. He was in a state of nervous excitement and perturbation; he noticed nothing and no one; and he felt a craving for solitude, to be alone with his thoughts and his emotions, and to give himself up to them passively. He loathed the idea of trying to answer the questions that would rise up in his heart and mind. "I am not to blame for all this," he thought to himself, half unconsciously. Towards six o'clock he found himself at the station of the Tsarsko-Selski railway. He was tired of solitude now; a new rush of feeling took hold of him, and a flood of light chased away the gloom, for a moment, from his soul. He took a ticket to Pavlofsk, and determined to get there as fast as he could, but something stopped him; a reality, and not a fantasy, as he was inclined to think it. He was about to take his place in a carriage, when he suddenly threw away his ticket and came out again, disturbed and thoughtful. A few moments later, in the street, he recalled something that had bothered him all the afternoon. He caught himself engaged in a strange occupation which he now recollected he had taken up at odd moments for the last few hours--it was looking about all around him for something, he did not know what. He had forgotten it for a while, half an hour or so, and now, suddenly, the uneasy search had recommenced. But he had hardly become conscious of this curious phenomenon, when another recollection suddenly swam through his brain, interesting him for the moment, exceedingly. He remembered that the last time he had been engaged in looking around him for the unknown something, he was standing before a cutler's shop, in the window of which were exposed certain goods for sale. He was extremely anxious now to discover whether this shop and these goods really existed, or whether the whole thing had been a hallucination. He felt in a very curious condition today, a condition similar to that which had preceded his fits in bygone years. He remembered that at such times he had been particularly absentminded, and could not discriminate between objects and persons unless he concentrated special attention upon them. He remembered seeing something in the window marked at sixty copecks. Therefore, if the shop existed and if this object were really in the window, it would prove that he had been able to concentrate his attention on by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 140 this article at a moment when, as a general rule, his absence of mind would have been too great to admit of any such concentration; in fact, very shortly after he had left the railway station in such a state of agitation. So he walked back looking about him for the shop, and his heart beat with intolerable impatience. Ah! here was the very shop, and there was the article marked 60 cop." "Of course, it's sixty copecks," he thought, and certainly worth no more." This idea amused him and he laughed. But it was a hysterical laugh; he was feeling terribly oppressed. He remembered clearly that just here, standing before this window, he had suddenly turned round, just as earlier in the day he had turned and found the dreadful eyes of Rogojin fixed upon him. Convinced, therefore, that in this respect at all events he had been under no delusion, he left the shop and went on. This must be thought out; it was clear that there had been no hallucination at the station then, either; something had actually happened to him, on both occasions; there was no doubt of it. But again a loathing for all mental exertion overmastered him; he would not think it out now, he would put it off and think of something else. He remembered that during his epileptic fits, or rather immediately preceding them, he had always experienced a moment or two when his whole heart, and mind, and body seemed to wake up to vigour and light; when he became filled with joy and hope, and all his anxieties seemed to be swept away for ever; these moments were but presentiments, as it were, of the one final second (it was never more than a second) in which the fit came upon him. That second, of course, was inexpressible. When his attack was over, and the prince reflected on his symptoms, he used to say to himself: "These moments, short as they are, when I feel such extreme consciousness of myself, and consequently more of life than at other times, are due only to the disease--to the sudden rupture of normal conditions. Therefore they are not really a higher kind of life, but a lower." This reasoning, however, seemed to end in a paradox, and lead to the further consideration:--"What matter though it be only disease, an abnormal tension of the brain, if when I recall and analyze the moment, it seems to have been one of harmony and beauty in the highest degree--an instant of deepest sensation, overflowing with unbounded joy and rapture, ecstatic devotion, and completest life?" Vague though this sounds, it was perfectly comprehensible to Muishkin, though he knew that it was but a feeble expression of his sensations. That there was, indeed, beauty and harmony in those abnormal moments, that they really contained the highest synthesis of life, he could not doubt, nor even admit the possibility of doubt. He felt that they were not analogous to the fantastic and unreal dreams due to intoxication by hashish, opium or wine. Of that he could judge, when the attack was over. These instants were characterized--to define it in a word--by an intense quickening of the sense of personality. Since, in the last conscious moment preceding the attack, he could say to himself, with full understanding of his words: "I would give my whole life for this one instant," then doubtless to him it really was worth a lifetime. For the rest, he thought the dialectical part of his argument of little worth; he saw only too clearly that the result of these ecstatic moments was stupefaction, mental darkness, idiocy. No argument was possible on that point. His conclusion, his estimate of the "moment," doubtless contained some error, yet the reality of the sensation troubled him. What's more unanswerable than a fact? And this fact had occurred. The prince had confessed unreservedly to himself that the feeling of intense beatitude in that crowded moment made the moment worth a lifetime. "I feel then," he said one day to Rogojin in Moscow, "I feel then as if I understood those amazing words--'There shall be no more time.'" And he added with a smile: "No doubt the epileptic Mahomet refers to that same moment when he says that he visited all the dwellings of Allah, in less time than was needed to empty his pitcher of water." Yes, he had often met Rogojin in Moscow, and many were the subjects they discussed. "He told me I had been a brother to him," thought the prince. "He said so today, for the first time." He was sitting in the Summer Garden on a seat under a tree, and his mind dwelt on the matter. It was about seven o'clock, and the place was empty. The stifling atmosphere foretold a storm, and the prince felt a certain charm in the contemplative mood which possessed him. He found pleasure, too, in gazing at the exterior objects around him. All the time he was trying to forget some thing, to escape from some idea that haunted by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 141 him; but melancholy thoughts came back, though he would so willingly have escaped from them. He remembered suddenly how he had been talking to the waiter, while he dined, about a recently committed murder which the whole town was discussing, and as he thought of it something strange came over him. He was seized all at once by a violent desire, almost a temptation, against which he strove in vain. He jumped up and walked off as fast as he could towards the "Petersburg Side." [One of the quarters of St. Petersburg.] He had asked someone, a little while before, to show him which was the Petersburg Side, on the banks of the Neva. He had not gone there, however; and he knew very well that it was of no use to go now, for he would certainly not find Lebedeff's relation at home. He had the address, but she must certainly have gone to Pavlofsk, or Colia would have let him know. If he were to go now, it would merely be out of curiosity, but a sudden, new idea had come into his head. However, it was something to move on and know where he was going. A minute later he was still moving on, but without knowing anything. He could no longer think out his new idea. He tried to take an interest in all he saw; in the sky, in the Neva. He spoke to some children he met. He felt his epileptic condition becoming more and more developed. The evening was very close; thunder was heard some way off. The prince was haunted all that day by the face of Lebedeff's nephew whom he had seen for the first time that morning, just as one is haunted at times by some persistent musical refrain. By a curious association of ideas, the young man always appeared as the murderer of whom Lebedeff had spoken when introducing him to Muishkin. Yes, he had read something about the murder, and that quite recently. Since he came to Russia, he had heard many stories of this kind, and was interested in them. His conversation with the waiter, an hour ago, chanced to be on the subject of this murder of the Zemarins, and the latter had agreed with him about it. He thought of the waiter again, and decided that he was no fool, but a steady, intelligent man: though, said he to himself, "God knows what he may really be; in a country with which one is unfamiliar it is difficult to understand the people one meets." He was beginning to have a passionate faith in the Russian soul, however, and what discoveries he had made in the last six months, what unexpected discoveries! But every soul is a mystery, and depths of mystery lie in the soul of a Russian. He had been intimate with Rogojin, for example, and a brotherly friendship had sprung up between them--yet did he really know him? What chaos and ugliness fills the world at times! What a self-satisfied rascal is that nephew of Lebedeff's! "But what am I thinking," continued the prince to himself. "Can he really have committed that crime? Did he kill those six persons? I seem to be confusing things ... how strange it all is.... My head goes round... And Lebedeff's daughter--how sympathetic and charming her face was as she held the child in her arms! What an innocent look and child-like laugh she had! It is curious that I had forgotten her until now. I expect Lebedeff adores her--and I really believe, when I think of it, that as sure as two and two make four, he is fond of that nephew, too!" Well, why should he judge them so hastily! Could he really say what they were, after one short visit? Even Lebedeff seemed an enigma today. Did he expect to find him so? He had never seen him like that before. Lebedeff and the Comtesse du Barry! Good Heavens! If Rogojin should really kill someone, it would not, at any rate, be such a senseless, chaotic affair. A knife made to a special pattern, and six people killed in a kind of delirium. But Rogojin also had a knife made to a special pattern. Can it be that Rogojin wishes to murder anyone? The prince began to tremble violently. "It is a crime on my part to imagine anything so base, with such cynical frankness." His face reddened with shame at the thought; and then there came across him as in a flash the memory of the incidents at the Pavlofsk station, and at the other station in the morning; and the question asked him by Rogojin about THE EYES and Rogojin's cross, that he was even now wearing; and the benediction of Rogojin's mother; and his embrace on the darkened staircase--that last supreme renunciation--and now, to find himself full of this new "idea," staring into shop-windows, and looking round for things--how base he was! Despair overmastered his soul; he would not go on, he would go back to his hotel; he even turned and went the other way; but a moment after he changed his mind again and went on in the old direction. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 142 Why, here he was on the Petersburg Side already, quite close to the house! Where was his "idea"? He was marching along without it now. Yes, his malady was coming back, it was clear enough; all this gloom and heaviness, all these "ideas," were nothing more nor less than a fit coming on; perhaps he would have a fit this very day. But just now all the gloom and darkness had fled, his heart felt full of joy and hope, there was no such thing as doubt. And yes, he hadn't seen her for so long; he really must see her. He wished he could meet Rogojin; he would take his hand, and they would go to her together. His heart was pure, he was no rival of Parfen's. Tomorrow, he would go and tell him that he had seen her. Why, he had only come for the sole purpose of seeing her, all the way from Moscow! Perhaps she might be here still, who knows? She might not have gone away to Pavlofsk yet. Yes, all this must be put straight and above-board, there must be no more passionate renouncements, such as Rogojin's. It must all be clear as day. Cannot Rogojin's soul bear the light? He said he did not love her with sympathy and pity; true, he added that "your pity is greater than my love," but he was not quite fair on himself there. Kin! Rogojin reading a book--wasn't that sympathy beginning? Did it not show that he comprehended his relations with her? And his story of waiting day and night for her forgiveness? That didn't look quite like passion alone. And as to her face, could it inspire nothing but passion? Could her face inspire passion at all now? Oh, it inspired suffering, grief, overwhelming grief of the soul! A poignant, agonizing memory swept over the prince's heart. Yes, agonizing. He remembered how he had suffered that first day when he thought he observed in her the symptoms of madness. He had almost fallen into despair. How could he have lost his hold upon her when she ran away from him to Rogojin? He ought to have run after her himself, rather than wait for news as he had done. Can Rogojin have failed to observe, up to now, that she is mad? Rogojin attributes her strangeness to other causes, to passion! What insane jealousy! What was it he had hinted at in that suggestion of his? The prince suddenly blushed, and shuddered to his very heart. But why recall all this? There was insanity on both sides. For him, the prince, to love this woman with passion, was unthinkable. It would be cruel and inhuman. Yes. Rogojin is not fair to himself; he has a large heart; he has aptitude for sympathy. When he learns the truth, and finds what a pitiable being is this injured, broken, half-insane creature, he will forgive her all the torment she has caused him. He will become her slave, her brother, her friend. Compassion will teach even Rogojin, it will show him how to reason. Compassion is the chief law of human existence. Oh, how guilty he felt towards Rogojin! And, for a few warm, hasty words spoken in Moscow, Parfen had called him "brother," while he--but no, this was delirium! It would all come right! That gloomy Parfen had implied that his faith was waning; he must suffer dreadfully. He said he liked to look at that picture; it was not that he liked it, but he felt the need of looking at it. Rogojin was not merely a passionate soul; he was a fighter. He was fighting for the restoration of his dying faith. He must have something to hold on to and believe, and someone to believe in. What a strange picture that of Holbein's is! Why, this is the street, and here's the house, No. 16. The prince rang the bell, and asked for Nastasia Philipovna. The lady of the house came out, and stated that Nastasia had gone to stay with Daria Alexeyevna at Pavlofsk, and might be there some days. Madame Filisoff was a little woman of forty, with a cunning face, and crafty, piercing eyes. When, with an air of mystery, she asked her visitor's name, he refused at first to answer, but in a moment he changed his mind, and left strict instructions that it should be given to Nastasia Philipovna. The urgency of his request seemed to impress Madame Filisoff, and she put on a knowing expression, as if to say, "You need not be afraid, I quite understand." The prince's name evidently was a great surprise to her. He stood and looked absently at her for a moment, then turned, and took the road back to his hotel. But he went away not as he came. A great change by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 143 had suddenly come over him. He went blindly forward; his knees shook under him; he was tormented by "ideas"; his lips were blue, and trembled with a feeble, meaningless smile. His demon was upon him once more. What had happened to him? Why was his brow clammy with drops of moisture, his knees shaking beneath him, and his soul oppressed with a cold gloom? Was it because he had just seen these dreadful eyes again? Why, he had left the Summer Garden on purpose to see them; that had been his "idea." He had wished to assure himself that he would see them once more at that house. Then why was he so overwhelmed now, having seen them as he expected? just as though he had not expected to see them! Yes, they were the very same eyes; and no doubt about it. The same that he had seen in the crowd that morning at the station, the same that he had surprised in Rogojin's rooms some hours later, when the latter had replied to his inquiry with a sneering laugh, "Well, whose eyes were they?" Then for the third time they had appeared just as he was getting into the train on his way to see Aglaya. He had had a strong impulse to rush up to Rogojin, and repeat his words of the morning "Whose eyes are they?" Instead he had fled from the station, and knew nothing more, until he found himself gazing into the window of a cutler's shop, and wondering if a knife with a staghorn handle would cost more than sixty copecks. And as the prince sat dreaming in the Summer Garden under a lime-tree, a wicked demon had come and whispered in his car: "Rogojin has been spying upon you and watching you all the morning in a frenzy of desperation. When he finds you have not gone to Pavlofsk--a terrible discovery for him--he will surely go at once to that house in Petersburg Side, and watch for you there, although only this morning you gave your word of honour not to see HER, and swore that you had not come to Petersburg for that purpose." And thereupon the prince had hastened off to that house, and what was there in the fact that he had met Rogojin there? He had only seen a wretched, suffering creature, whose state of mind was gloomy and miserable, but most comprehensible. In the morning Rogojin had seemed to be trying to keep out of the way; but at the station this afternoon he had stood out, he had concealed himself, indeed, less than the prince himself; at the house, now, he had stood fifty yards off on the other side of the road, with folded hands, watching, plainly in view and apparently desirous of being seen. He had stood there like an accuser, like a judge, not like a--a what? And why had not the prince approached him and spoken to him, instead of turning away and pretending he had seen nothing, although their eyes met? (Yes, their eyes had met, and they had looked at each other.) Why, he had himself wished to take Rogojin by the hand and go in together, he had himself determined to go to him on the morrow and tell him that he had seen her, he had repudiated the demon as he walked to the house, and his heart had been full of joy. Was there something in the whole aspect of the man, today, sufficient to justify the prince's terror, and the awful suspicions of his demon? Something seen, but indescribable, which filled him with dreadful presentiments? Yes, he was convinced of it--convinced of what? (Oh, how mean and hideous of him to feel this conviction, this presentiment! How he blamed himself for it!) "Speak if you dare, and tell me, what is the presentiment?" he repeated to himself, over and over again. "Put it into words, speak out clearly and distinctly. Oh, miserable coward that I am!" The prince flushed with shame for his own baseness. "How shall I ever look this man in the face again? My God, what a day! And what a nightmare, what a nightmare!" There was a moment, during this long, wretched walk back from the Petersburg Side, when the prince felt an irresistible desire to go straight to Rogojin's, wait for him, embrace him with tears of shame and contrition, and tell him of his distrust, and finish with it--once for all. But here he was back at his hotel. How often during the day he had thought of this hotel with loathing--its corridor, its rooms, its stairs. How he had dreaded coming back to it, for some reason. "What a regular old woman I am today," he had said to himself each time, with annoyance. "I believe in every by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 144 foolish presentiment that comes into my head." He stopped for a moment at the door; a great flush of shame came over him. "I am a coward, a wretched coward," he said, and moved forward again; but once more he paused. Among all the incidents of the day, one recurred to his mind to the exclusion of the rest; although now that his self-control was regained, and he was no longer under the influence of a nightmare, he was able to think of it calmly. It concerned the knife on Rogojin's table. "Why should not Rogojin have as many knives on his table as he chooses?" thought the prince, wondering at his suspicions, as he had done when he found himself looking into the cutler's window. "What could it have to do with me?" he said to himself again, and stopped as if rooted to the ground by a kind of paralysis of limb such as attacks people under the stress of some humiliating recollection. The doorway was dark and gloomy at any time; but just at this moment it was rendered doubly so by the fact that the thunder- storm had just broken, and the rain was coming down in torrents. And in the semi-darkness the prince distinguished a man standing close to the stairs, apparently waiting. There was nothing particularly significant in the fact that a man was standing back in the doorway, waiting to come out or go upstairs; but the prince felt an irresistible conviction that he knew this man, and that it was Rogojin. The man moved on up the stairs; a moment later the prince passed up them, too. His heart froze within him. "In a minute or two I shall know all," he thought. The staircase led to the first and second corridors of the hotel, along which lay the guests' bedrooms. As is often the case in Petersburg houses, it was narrow and very dark, and turned around a massive stone column. On the first landing, which was as small as the necessary turn of the stairs allowed, there was a niche in the column, about half a yard wide, and in this niche the prince felt convinced that a man stood concealed. He thought he could distinguish a figure standing there. He would pass by quickly and not look. He took a step forward, but could bear the uncertainty no longer and turned his head. The eyes--the same two eyes--met his! The man concealed in the niche had also taken a step forward. For one second they stood face to face. Suddenly the prince caught the man by the shoulder and twisted him round towards the light, so that he might see his face more clearly. Rogojin's eyes flashed, and a smile of insanity distorted his countenance. His right hand was raised, and something glittered in it. The prince did not think of trying to stop it. All he could remember afterwards was that he seemed to have called out: "Parfen! I won't believe it." Next moment something appeared to burst open before him: a wonderful inner light illuminated his soul. This lasted perhaps half a second, yet he distinctly remembered hearing the beginning of the wail, the strange, dreadful wail, which burst from his lips of its own accord, and which no effort of will on his part could suppress. Next moment he was absolutely unconscious; black darkness blotted out everything. He had fallen in an epileptic fit. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 145 .. . . . . . . As is well known, these fits occur instantaneously. The face, especially the eyes, become terribly disfigured, convulsions seize the limbs, a terrible cry breaks from the sufferer, a wail from which everything human seems to be blotted out, so that it is impossible to believe that the man who has just fallen is the same who emitted the dreadful cry. It seems more as though some other being, inside the stricken one, had cried. Many people have borne witness to this impression; and many cannot behold an epileptic fit without a feeling of mysterious terror and dread. Such a feeling, we must suppose, overtook Rogojin at this moment, and saved the prince's life. Not knowing that it was a fit, and seeing his victim disappear head foremost into the darkness, hearing his head strike the stone steps below with a crash, Rogojin rushed downstairs, skirting the body, and flung himself headlong out of the hotel, like a raving madman. The prince's body slipped convulsively down the steps till it rested at the bottom. Very soon, in five minutes or so, he was discovered, and a crowd collected around him. A pool of blood on the steps near his head gave rise to grave fears. Was it a case of accident, or had there been a crime? It was, however, soon recognized as a case of epilepsy, and identification and proper measures for restoration followed one another, owing to a fortunate circumstance. Colia Ivolgin had come back to his hotel about seven o'clock, owing to a sudden impulse which made him refuse to dine at the Epanchins', and, finding a note from the prince awaiting him, had sped away to the latter's address. Arrived there, he ordered a cup of tea and sat sipping it in the coffee-room. While there he heard excited whispers of someone just found at the bottom of the stairs in a fit; upon which he had hurried to the spot, with a presentiment of evil, and at once recognized the prince. The sufferer was immediately taken to his room, and though he partially regained consciousness, he lay long in a semi-dazed condition. The doctor stated that there was no danger to be apprehended from the wound on the head, and as soon as the prince could understand what was going on around him, Colia hired a carriage and took him away to Lebedeff's. There he was received with much cordiality, and the departure to the country was hastened on his account. Three days later they were all at Pavlofsk. VI. LEBEDEFF'S country-house was not large, but it was pretty and convenient, especially the part which was let to the prince. A row of orange and lemon trees and jasmines, planted in green tubs, stood on the fairly wide terrace. According to Lebedeff, these trees gave the house a most delightful aspect. Some were there when he bought it, and he was so charmed with the effect that he promptly added to their number. When the tubs containing these plants arrived at the villa and were set in their places, Lebedeff kept running into the street to enjoy the view of the house, and every time he did so the rent to be demanded from the future tenant went up with a bound. This country villa pleased the prince very much in his state of physical and mental exhaustion. On the day that they left for Pavlofsk, that is the day after his attack, he appeared almost well, though in reality he felt very far from it. The faces of those around him for the last three days had made a pleasant impression. He was pleased to see, not only Colia, who had become his inseparable companion, but Lebedeff himself and all the family, except the nephew, who had left the house. He was also glad to receive a visit from General Ivolgin, before leaving St. Petersburg. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 146 It was getting late when the party arrived at Pavlofsk, but several people called to see the prince, and assembled in the verandah. Gania was the first to arrive. He had grown so pale and thin that the prince could hardly recognize him. Then came Varia and Ptitsin, who were rusticating in the neighbourhood. As to General Ivolgin, he scarcely budged from Lebedeff's house, and seemed to have moved to Pavlofsk with him. Lebedeff did his best to keep Ardalion Alexandrovitch by him, and to prevent him from invading the prince's quarters. He chatted with him confidentially, so that they might have been taken for old friends. During those three days the prince had noticed that they frequently held long conversations; he often heard their voices raised in argument on deep and learned subjects, which evidently pleased Lebedeff. He seemed as if he could not do without the general. But it was not only Ardalion Alexandrovitch whom Lebedeff kept out of the prince's way. Since they had come to the villa, he treated his own family the same. Upon the pretext that his tenant needed quiet, he kept him almost in isolation, and Muishkin protested in vain against this excess of zeal. Lebedeff stamped his feet at his daughters and drove them away if they attempted to join the prince on the terrace; not even Vera was excepted. "They will lose all respect if they are allowed to be so free and easy; besides it is not proper for them," he declared at last, in answer to a direct question from the prince. "Why on earth not?" asked the latter. "Really, you know, you are making yourself a nuisance, by keeping guard over me like this. I get bored all by myself; I have told you so over and over again, and you get on my nerves more than ever by waving your hands and creeping in and out in the mysterious way you do." It was a fact that Lebedeff, though he was so anxious to keep everyone else from disturbing the patient, was continually in and out of the prince's room himself. He invariably began by opening the door a crack and peering in to see if the prince was there, or if he had escaped; then he would creep softly up to the arm- chair, sometimes making Muishkin jump by his sudden appearance. He always asked if the patient wanted anything, and when the latter replied that he only wanted to be left in peace, he would turn away obediently and make for the door on tip-toe, with deprecatory gestures to imply that he had only just looked in, that he would not speak a word, and would go away and not intrude again; which did not prevent him from reappearing in ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. Colia had free access to the prince, at which Lebedeff was quite disgusted and indignant. He would listen at the door for half an hour at a time while the two were talking. Colia found this out, and naturally told the prince of his discovery. "Do you think yourself my master, that you try to keep me under lock and key like this?" said the prince to Lebedeff. "In the country, at least, I intend to be free, and you may make up your mind that I mean to see whom I like, and go where I please." "Why, of course," replied the clerk, gesticulating with his hands. The prince looked him sternly up and down. "Well, Lukian Timofeyovitch, have you brought the little cupboard that you had at the head of your bed with you here?" "No, I left it where it was." "Impossible!" "It cannot be moved; you would have to pull the wall down, it is so firmly fixed." "Perhaps you have one like it here?" "I have one that is even better, much better; that is really why I bought this house." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 147 "Ah! What visitor did you turn away from my door, about an hour ago?" "The-the general. I would not let him in; there is no need for him to visit you, prince... I have the deepest esteem for him, he is a--a great man. You don't believe it? Well, you will see, and yet, most excellent prince, you had much better not receive him." "May I ask why? and also why you walk about on tiptoe and always seem as if you were going to whisper a secret in my ear whenever you come near me?" "I am vile, vile; I know it!" cried Lebedeff, beating his breast with a contrite air. "But will not the general be too hospitable for you?" "Too hospitable?" "Yes. First, he proposes to come and live in my house. Well and good; but he sticks at nothing; he immediately makes himself one of the family. We have talked over our respective relations several times, and discovered that we are connected by marriage. It seems also that you are a sort of nephew on his mother's side; he was explaining it to me again only yesterday. If you are his nephew, it follows that I must also be a relation of yours, most excellent prince. Never mind about that, it is only a foible; but just now he assured me that all his life, from the day he was made an ensign to the 11th of last June, he has entertained at least two hundred guests at his table every day. Finally, he went so far as to say that they never rose from the table; they dined, supped, and had tea, for fifteen hours at a stretch. This went on for thirty years without a break; there was barely time to change the table-cloth; directly one person left, another took his place. On feast-days he entertained as many as three hundred guests, and they numbered seven hundred on the thousandth anniversary of the foundation of the Russian Empire. It amounts to a passion with him; it makes one uneasy to hear of it. It is terrible to have to entertain people who do things on such a scale. That is why I wonder whether such a man is not too hospitable for you and me." "But you seem to be on the best of terms with him?" "Quite fraternal--I look upon it as a joke. Let us be brothers- in-law, it is all the same to me,--rather an honour than not. But in spite of the two hundred guests and the thousandth anniversary of the Russian Empire, I can see that he is a very remarkable man. I am quite sincere. You said just now that I always looked as if I was going to tell you a secret; you are right. I have a secret to tell you: a certain person has just let me know that she is very anxious for a secret interview with you." "Why should it be secret? Not at all; I will call on her myself tomorrow." "No, oh no!" cried Lebedeff, waving his arms; "if she is afraid, it is not for the reason you think. By the way, do you know that the monster comes every day to inquire after your health?" "You call him a monster so often that it makes me suspicious." "You must have no suspicions, none whatever," said Lebedeff quickly. "I only want you to know that the person in question is not afraid of him, but of something quite, quite different." "What on earth is she afraid of, then? Tell me plainly, without any more beating about the bush," said the prince, exasperated by the other's mysterious grimaces. "Ah that is the secret," said Lebedeff, with a smile. "Whose secret?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 148 "Yours. You forbade me yourself to mention it before you, most excellent prince," murmured Lebedeff. Then, satisfied that he had worked up Muishkin's curiosity to the highest pitch, he added abruptly: "She is afraid of Aglaya Ivanovna." The prince frowned for a moment in silence, and then said suddenly: "Really, Lebedeff, I must leave your house. Where are Gavrila Ardalionovitch and the Ptitsins? Are they here? Have you chased them away, too?" "They are coming, they are coming; and the general as well. I will open all the doors; I will call all my daughters, all of them, this very minute," said Lebedeff in a low voice, thoroughly frightened, and waving his hands as he ran from door to door. At that moment Colia appeared on the terrace; he announced that Lizabetha Prokofievna and her three daughters were close behind him. Moved by this news, Lebedeff hurried up to the prince. "Shall I call the Ptitsins, and Gavrila Ardalionovitch? Shall I let the general in?" he asked. "Why not? Let in anyone who wants to see me. I assure you, Lebedeff, you have misunderstood my position from the very first; you have been wrong all along. I have not the slightest reason to hide myself from anyone," replied the prince gaily. Seeing him laugh, Lebedeff thought fit to laugh also, and though much agitated his satisfaction was quite visible. Colia was right; the Epanchin ladies were only a few steps behind him. As they approached the terrace other visitors appeared from Lebedeff's side of the house-the Ptitsins, Gania, and Ardalion Alexandrovitch. The Epanchins had only just heard of the prince's illness and of his presence in Pavlofsk, from Colia; and up to this time had been in a state of considerable bewilderment about him. The general brought the prince's card down from town, and Mrs. Epanchin had felt convinced that he himself would follow his card at once; she was much excited. In vain the girls assured her that a man who had not written for six months would not be in such a dreadful hurry, and that probably he had enough to do in town without needing to bustle down to Pavlofsk to see them. Their mother was quite angry at the very idea of such a thing, and announced her absolute conviction that he would turn up the next day at latest. So next day the prince was expected all the morning, and at dinner, tea, and supper; and when he did not appear in the evening, Mrs. Epanchin quarrelled with everyone in the house, finding plenty of pretexts without so much as mentioning the prince's name. On the third day there was no talk of him at all, until Aglaya remarked at dinner: "Mamma is cross because the prince hasn't turned up," to which the general replied that it was not his fault. Mrs. Epanchin misunderstood the observation, and rising from her place she left the room in majestic wrath. In the evening, however, Colia came with the story of the prince's adventures, so far as he knew them. Mrs. Epanchin was triumphant; although Colia had to listen to a long lecture. "He idles about here the whole day long, one can't get rid of him; and then when he is wanted he does not come. He might have sent a line if he did not wish to inconvenience himself." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 149 At the words "one can't get rid of him," Colia was very angry, and nearly flew into a rage; but he resolved to be quiet for the time and show his resentment later. If the words had been less offensive he might have forgiven them, so pleased was he to see Lizabetha Prokofievna worried and anxious about the prince's illness. She would have insisted on sending to Petersburg at once, for a certain great medical celebrity; but her daughters dissuaded her, though they were not willing to stay behind when she at once prepared to go and visit the invalid. Aglaya, however, suggested that it was a little unceremonious to go en masse to see him. "Very well then, stay at home," said Mrs. Epanchin, and a good thing too, for Evgenie Pavlovitch is coming down and there will be no one at home to receive him." Of course, after this, Aglaya went with the rest. In fact, she had never had the slightest intention of doing otherwise. Prince S., who was in the house, was requested to escort the ladies. He had been much interested when he first heard of the prince from the Epanchins. It appeared that they had known one another before, and had spent some time together in a little provincial town three months ago. Prince S. had greatly taken to him, and was delighted with the opportunity of meeting him again, The general had not come down from town as yet, nor had Evgenie Pavlovitch arrived. It was not more than two or three hundred yards from the Epanchins' house to Lebedeff's. The first disagreeable impression experienced by Mrs. Epanchin was to find the prince surrounded by a whole assembly of other guests--not to mention the fact that some of those present were particularly detestable in her eyes. The next annoying circumstance was when an apparently strong and healthy young fellow, well dressed, and smiling, came forward to meet her on the terrace, instead of the half-dying unfortunate whom she had expected to see. She was astonished and vexed, and her disappointment pleased Colia immensely. Of course he could have undeceived her before she started, but the mischievous boy had been careful not to do that, foreseeing the probably laughable disgust that she would experience when she found her dear friend, the prince, in good health. Colia was indelicate enough to voice the delight he felt at his success in managing to annoy Lizabetha Prokofievna, with whom, in spite of their really amicable relations, he was constantly sparring. "Just wait a while, my boy!" said she; "don't be too certain of your triumph." And she sat down heavily, in the arm-chair pushed forward by the prince. Lebedeff, Ptitsin, and General Ivolgin hastened to find chairs for the young ladies. Varia greeted them joyfully, and they exchanged confidences in ecstatic whispers. "I must admit, prince, I was a little put out to see you up and about like this--I expected to find you in bed; but I give you my word, I was only annoyed for an instant, before I collected my thoughts properly. I am always wiser on second thoughts, and I dare say you are the same. I assure you I am as glad to see you well as though you were my own son,--yes, and more; and if you don't believe me the more shame to you, and it's not my fault. But that spiteful boy delights in playing all sorts of tricks. You are his patron, it seems. Well, I warn you that one fine morning I shall deprive myself of the pleasure of his further acquaintance." "What have I done wrong now?" cried Colia. "What was the good of telling you that the prince was nearly well again? You would not have believed me; it was so much more interesting to picture him on his death-bed." "How long do you remain here, prince?" asked Madame Epanchin. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 150 "All the summer, and perhaps longer." "You are alone, aren't you,--not married?" "No, I'm not married!" replied the prince, smiling at the ingenuousness of this little feeler. "Oh, you needn't laugh! These things do happen, you know! Now then--why didn't you come to us? We have a wing quite empty. But just as you like, of course. Do you lease it from HIM?--this fellow, I mean," she added, nodding towards Lebedeff. "And why does he always wriggle so?" At that moment Vera, carrying the baby in her arms as usual, came out of the house, on to the terrace. Lebedeff kept fidgeting among the chairs, and did not seem to know what to do with himself, though he had no intention of going away. He no sooner caught sight of his daughter, than he rushed in her direction, waving his arms to keep her away; he even forgot himself so far as to stamp his foot. "Is he mad?" asked Madame Epanchin suddenly. "No, he ..." "Perhaps he is drunk? Your company is rather peculiar," she added, with a glance at the other guests.... "But what a pretty girl! Who is she?" "That is Lebedeff's daughter--Vera Lukianovna." "Indeed? She looks very sweet. I should like to make her acquaintance." The words were hardly out of her mouth, when Lebedeff dragged Vera forward, in order to present her. "Orphans, poor orphans!" he began in a pathetic voice. "The child she carries is an orphan, too. She is Vera's sister, my daughter Luboff. The day this babe was born, six weeks ago, my wife died, by the will of God Almighty. ... Yes... Vera takes her mother's place, though she is but her sister... nothing more ... nothing more..." "And you! You are nothing more than a fool, if you'll excuse me! Well! well! you know that yourself, I expect," said the lady indignantly. Lebedeff bowed low. "It is the truth," he replied, with extreme respect. "Oh, Mr. Lebedeff, I am told you lecture on the Apocalypse. Is it true?" asked Aglaya. "Yes, that is so ... for the last fifteen years." "I have heard of you, and I think read of you in the newspapers." "No, that was another commentator, whom the papers named. He is dead, however, and I have taken his place," said the other, much delighted. "We are neighbours, so will you be so kind as to come over one day and explain the Apocalypse to me?" said Aglaya. "I do not understand it in the least." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 151 "Allow me to warn you," interposed General Ivolgin, that he is the greatest charlatan on earth." He had taken the chair next to the girl, and was impatient to begin talking. "No doubt there are pleasures and amusements peculiar to the country," he continued, "and to listen to a pretended student holding forth on the book of the Revelations may be as good as any other. It may even be original. But ... you seem to be looking at me with some surprise--may I introduce myself--General Ivolgin--I carried you in my arms as a baby--" "Delighted, I'm sure," said Aglaya; "I am acquainted with Varvara Ardalionovna and Nina Alexandrovna." She was trying hard to restrain herself from laughing. Mrs. Epanchin flushed up; some accumulation of spleen in her suddenly needed an outlet. She could not bear this General Ivolgin whom she had once known, long ago--in society. "You are deviating from the truth, sir, as usual!" she remarked, boiling over with indignation; "you never carried her in your life!" "You have forgotten, mother," said Aglaya, suddenly. "He really did carry me about,--in Tver, you know. I was six years old, I remember. He made me a bow and arrow, and I shot a pigeon. Don't you remember shooting a pigeon, you and I, one day?" "Yes, and he made me a cardboard helmet, and a little wooden sword--I remember!" said Adelaida. "Yes, I remember too!" said Alexandra. "You quarrelled about the wounded pigeon, and Adelaida was put in the corner, and stood there with her helmet and sword and all." The poor general had merely made the remark about having carried Aglaya in his arms because he always did so begin a conversation with young people. But it happened that this time he had really hit upon the truth, though he had himself entirely forgotten the fact. But when Adelaida and Aglaya recalled the episode of the pigeon, his mind became filled with memories, and it is impossible to describe how this poor old man, usually half drunk, was moved by the recollection. "I remember--I remember it all!" he cried. "I was captain then. You were such a lovely little thing--Nina Alexandrovna!--Gania, listen! I was received then by General Epanchin." "Yes, and look what you have come to now!" interrupted Mrs. Epanchin. "However, I see you have not quite drunk your better feelings away. But you've broken your wife's heart, sir--and instead of looking after your children, you have spent your time in public-houses and debtors' prisons! Go away, my friend, stand in some corner and weep, and bemoan your fallen dignity, and perhaps God will forgive you yet! Go, go! I'm serious! There's nothing so favourable for repentance as to think of the past with feelings of remorse!" There was no need to repeat that she was serious. The general, like all drunkards, was extremely emotional and easily touched by recollections of his better days. He rose and walked quietly to the door, so meekly that Mrs. Epanchin was instantly sorry for him. "Ardalion Alexandrovitch," she cried after him, "wait a moment, we are all sinners! When you feel that your conscience reproaches you a little less, come over to me and we'll have a talk about the past! I dare say I am fifty times more of a sinner than you are! And now go, go, good-bye, you had better not stay here!" she added, in alarm, as he turned as though to come back. "Don't go after him just now, Colia, or he'll be vexed, and the benefit of this moment will be lost!" said the prince, as the boy was hurrying out of the room. "Quite true! Much better to go in half an hour or so said Mrs. Epanchin. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 152 "That's what comes of telling the truth for once in one's life!" said Lebedeff. "It reduced him to tears." "Come, come! the less YOU say about it the better--to judge from all I have heard about you!" replied Mrs. Epanchin. The prince took the first opportunity of informing the Epanchin ladies that he had intended to pay them a visit that day, if they had not themselves come this afternoon, and Lizabetha Prokofievna replied that she hoped he would still do so. By this time some of the visitors had disappeared. Ptitsin had tactfully retreated to Lebedeff's wing; and Gania soon followed him. The latter had behaved modestly, but with dignity, on this occasion of his first meeting with the Epanchins since the rupture. Twice Mrs. Epanchin had deliberately examined him from head to foot; but he had stood fire without flinching. He was certainly much changed, as anyone could see who had not met him for some time; and this fact seemed to afford Aglaya a good deal of satisfaction. "That was Gavrila Ardalionovitch, who just went out, wasn't it?" she asked suddenly, interrupting somebody else's conversation to make the remark. "Yes, it was," said the prince. "I hardly knew him; he is much changed, and for the better!" "I am very glad," said the prince. "He has been very ill," added Varia. "How has he changed for the better?" asked Mrs. Epanchin. "I don't see any change for the better! What's better in him? Where did you get THAT idea from? WHAT'S better?" "There's nothing better than the 'poor knight'!" said Colia, who was standing near the last speaker's chair. "I quite agree with you there!" said Prince S., laughing. "So do I," said Adelaida, solemnly. "WHAT poor knight?" asked Mrs. Epanchin, looking round at the face of each of the speakers in turn. Seeing, however, that Aglaya was blushing, she added, angrily: "What nonsense you are all talking! What do you mean by poor knight?" "It's not the first time this urchin, your favourite, has shown his impudence by twisting other people's words," said Aglaya, haughtily. Every time that Aglaya showed temper (and this was very often), there was so much childish pouting, such "school-girlishness," as it were, in her apparent wrath, that it was impossible to avoid smiling at her, to her own unutterable indignation. On these occasions she would say, "How can they, how DARE they laugh at me?" This time everyone laughed at her, her sisters, Prince S., Prince Muishkin (though he himself had flushed for by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 153 some reason), and Colia. Aglaya was dreadfully indignant, and looked twice as pretty in her wrath. "He's always twisting round what one says," she cried. "I am only repeating your own exclamation!" said Colia. "A month ago you were turning over the pages of your Don Quixote, and suddenly called out 'there is nothing better than the poor knight.' I don't know whom you were referring to, of course, whether to Don Quixote, or Evgenie Pavlovitch, or someone else, but you certainly said these words, and afterwards there was a long conversation . . . " "You are inclined to go a little too far, my good boy, with your guesses," said Mrs. Epanchin, with some show of annoyance. "But it's not I alone," cried Colia. "They all talked about it, and they do still. Why, just now Prince S. and Adelaida Ivanovna declared that they upheld 'the poor knight'; so evidently there does exist a 'poor knight'; and if it were not for Adelaida Ivanovna, we should have known long ago who the 'poor knight' was." "Why, how am I to blame?" asked Adelaida, smiling. "You wouldn't draw his portrait for us, that's why you are to blame! Aglaya Ivanovna asked you to draw his portrait, and gave you the whole subject of the picture. She invented it herself; and you wouldn't." "What was I to draw? According to the lines she quoted: "'From his face he never lifted That eternal mask of steel.'" "What sort of a face was I to draw? I couldn't draw a mask." "I don't know what you are driving at; what mask do you mean?" said Mrs. Epanchin, irritably. She began to see pretty clearly though what it meant, and whom they referred to by the generally accepted title of "poor knight." But what specially annoyed her was that the prince was looking so uncomfortable, and blushing like a ten-year-old child. "Well, have you finished your silly joke?" she added, and am I to be told what this 'poor knight' means, or is it a solemn secret which cannot be approached lightly?" But they all laughed on. "It's simply that there is a Russian poem," began Prince S., evidently anxious to change the conversation, "a strange thing, without beginning or end, and all about a 'poor knight.' A month or so ago, we were all talking and laughing, and looking up a subject for one of Adelaida's pictures--you know it is the principal business of this family to find subjects for Adelaida's pictures. Well, we happened upon this 'poor knight.' I don't remember who thought of it first--" "Oh! Aglaya Ivanovna did," said Colia. "Very likely--I don't recollect," continued Prince S. "Some of us laughed at the subject; some liked it; but she declared that, in order to make a picture of the gentleman, she must first see his face. We then began to think over all our friends' faces to see if any of them would do, and none suited us, and so the matter stood; that's all. I don't know why Nicolai Ardalionovitch has brought up the joke now. What was appropriate and funny then, has quite lost all interest by this time." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 154 "Probably there's some new silliness about it," said Mrs. Epanchin, sarcastically. "There is no silliness about it at all--only the profoundest respect," said Aglaya, very seriously. She had quite recovered her temper; in fact, from certain signs, it was fair to conclude that she was delighted to see this joke going so far; and a careful observer might have remarked that her satisfaction dated from the moment when the fact of the prince's confusion became apparent to all. "'Profoundest respect!' What nonsense! First, insane giggling, and then, all of a sudden, a display of 'profoundest respect.' Why respect? Tell me at once, why have you suddenly developed this 'profound respect,' eh?" "Because," replied Aglaya gravely, "in the poem the knight is described as a man capable of living up to an ideal all his life. That sort of thing is not to be found every day among the men of our times. In the poem it is not stated exactly what the ideal was, but it was evidently some vision, some revelation of pure Beauty, and the knight wore round his neck, instead of a scarf, a rosary. A device--A. N. B.--the meaning of which is not explained, was inscribed on his shield--" "No, A. N. D.," corrected Colia. "I say A. N. B., and so it shall be!" cried Aglaya, irritably. "Anyway, the 'poor knight' did not care what his lady was, or what she did. He had chosen his ideal, and he was bound to serve her, and break lances for her, and acknowledge her as the ideal of pure Beauty, whatever she might say or do afterwards. If she had taken to stealing, he would have championed her just the same. I think the poet desired to embody in this one picture the whole spirit of medieval chivalry and the platonic love of a pure and high-souled knight. Of course it's all an ideal, and in the 'poor knight' that spirit reached the utmost limit of asceticism. He is a Don Quixote, only serious and not comical. I used not to understand him, and laughed at him, but now I love the 'poor knight,' and respect his actions." So ended Aglaya; and, to look at her, it was difficult, indeed, to judge whether she was joking or in earnest. "Pooh! he was a fool, and his actions were the actions of a fool," said Mrs. Epanchin; "and as for you, young woman, you ought to know better. At all events, you are not to talk like that again. What poem is it? Recite it! I want to hear this poem! I have hated poetry all my life. Prince, you must excuse this nonsense. We neither of us like this sort of thing! Be patient!" They certainly were put out, both of them. The prince tried to say something, but he was too confused, and could not get his words out. Aglaya, who had taken such liberties in her little speech, was the only person present, perhaps, who was not in the least embarrassed. She seemed, in fact, quite pleased. She now rose solemnly from her seat, walked to the centre of the terrace, and stood in front of the prince's chair. All looked on with some surprise, and Prince S. and her sisters with feelings of decided alarm, to see what new frolic she was up to; it had gone quite far enough already, they thought. But Aglaya evidently thoroughly enjoyed the affectation and ceremony with which she was introducing her recitation of the poem. Mrs. Epanchin was just wondering whether she would not forbid the performance after all, when, at the very moment that Aglaya commenced her declamation, two new guests, both talking loudly, entered from the street. The new arrivals were General Epanchin and a young man. Their entrance caused some slight commotion. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 155 VII. THE young fellow accompanying the general was about twenty-eight, tall, and well built, with a handsome and clever face, and bright black eyes, full of fun and intelligence. Aglaya did not so much as glance at the new arrivals, but went on with her recitation, gazing at the prince the while in an affected manner, and at him alone. It was clear to him that she was doing all this with some special object. But the new guests at least somewhat eased his strained and uncomfortable position. Seeing them approaching, he rose from his chair, and nodding amicably to the general, signed to him not to interrupt the recitation. He then got behind his chair, and stood there with his left hand resting on the back of it. Thanks to this change of position, he was able to listen to the ballad with far less embarrassment than before. Mrs. Epanchin had also twice motioned to the new arrivals to be quiet, and stay where they were. The prince was much interested in the young man who had just entered. He easily concluded that this was Evgenie Pavlovitch Radomski, of whom he had already heard mention several times. He was puzzled, however, by the young man's plain clothes, for he had always heard of Evgenie Pavlovitch as a military man. An ironical smile played on Evgenie's lips all the while the recitation was proceeding, which showed that he, too, was probably in the secret of the 'poor knight' joke. But it had become quite a different matter with Aglaya. All the affectation of manner which she had displayed at the beginning disappeared as the ballad proceeded. She spoke the lines in so serious and exalted a manner, and with so much taste, that she even seemed to justify the exaggerated solemnity with which she had stepped forward. It was impossible to discern in her now anything but a deep feeling for the spirit of the poem which she had undertaken to interpret. Her eyes were aglow with inspiration, and a slight tremor of rapture passed over her lovely features once or twice. She continued to recite: "Once there came a vision glorious, Mystic, dreadful, wondrous fair; Burned itself into his spirit, And abode for ever there! "Never more--from that sweet moment-- Gazed he on womankind; He was dumb to love and wooing And to all their graces blind. "Full of love for that sweet vision, Brave and pure he took the field; With his blood he stained the letters N. P. B. upon his shield. "'Lumen caeli, sancta Rosa!' Shouting on the foe he fell, And like thunder rang his war-cry O'er the cowering infidel. "Then within his distant castle, Home returned, he dreamed his days- Silent, sad,--and when death took him He was mad, the legend says." When recalling all this afterwards the prince could not for the life of him understand how to reconcile the beautiful, sincere, pure nature of the girl with the irony of this jest. That it was a jest there was no doubt whatever; he knew that well enough, and had good reason, too, for his conviction; for during her recitation of the ballad Aglaya had deliberately changed the letters A. N. B. into N. P. B. He was quite sure she had not done this by accident, and that his ears had not deceived him. At all events her performance--which was a joke, of course, if rather a crude one,--was premeditated. They had evidently talked (and laughed) over the 'poor knight' for more than a month. Yet Aglaya had brought out these letters N. P. B. not only without the slightest appearance of irony, or even by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 156 any particular accentuation, but with so even and unbroken an appearance of seriousness that assuredly anyone might have supposed that these initials were the original ones written in the ballad. The thing made an uncomfortable impression upon the prince. Of course Mrs. Epanchin saw nothing either in the change of initials or in the insinuation embodied therein. General Epanchin only knew that there was a recitation of verses going on, and took no further interest in the matter. Of the rest of the audience, many had understood the allusion and wondered both at the daring of the lady and at the motive underlying it, but tried to show no sign of their feelings. But Evgenie Pavlovitch (as the prince was ready to wager) both comprehended and tried his best to show that he comprehended; his smile was too mocking to leave any doubt on that point. "How beautiful that is!" cried Mrs. Epanchin, with sincere admiration. "Whose is it? ' "Pushkin's, mama, of course! Don't disgrace us all by showing your ignorance," said Adelaida. "As soon as we reach home give it to me to read." "I don't think we have a copy of Pushkin in the house." "There are a couple of torn volumes somewhere; they have been lying about from time immemorial," added Alexandra. "Send Feodor or Alexey up by the very first train to buy a copy, then.--Aglaya, come here--kiss me, dear, you recited beautifully! but," she added in a whisper, "if you were sincere I am sorry for you. If it was a joke, I do not approve of the feelings which prompted you to do it, and in any case you would have done far better not to recite it at all. Do you understand?--Now come along, young woman; we've sat here too long. I'll speak to you about this another time." Meanwhile the prince took the opportunity of greeting General Epanchin, and the general introduced Evgenie Pavlovitch to him. "I caught him up on the way to your house," explained the general. "He had heard that we were all here." "Yes, and I heard that you were here, too," added Evgenie Pavlovitch; "and since I had long promised myself the pleasure of seeking not only your acquaintance but your friendship, I did not wish to waste time, but came straight on. I am sorry to hear that you are unwell." "Oh, but I'm quite well now, thank you, and very glad to make your acquaintance. Prince S. has often spoken to me about you," said Muishkin, and for an instant the two men looked intently into one another's eyes. The prince remarked that Evgenie Pavlovitch's plain clothes had evidently made a great impression upon the company present, so much so that all other interests seemed to be effaced before this surprising fact. His change of dress was evidently a matter of some importance. Adelaida and Alexandra poured out a stream of questions; Prince S., a relative of the young man, appeared annoyed; and Ivan Fedorovitch quite excited. Aglaya alone was not interested. She merely looked closely at Evgenie for a minute, curious perhaps as to whether civil or military clothes became him best, then turned away and paid no more attention to him or his costume. Lizabetha Prokofievna asked no questions, but it was clear that she was uneasy, and the prince fancied that Evgenie was not in her good graces. "He has astonished me," said Ivan Fedorovitch. "I nearly fell down with surprise. I could hardly believe my eyes when I met him in Petersburg just now. Why this haste? That's what I want to know. He has always said himself that there is no need to break windows." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 157 Evgenie Pavlovitch remarked here that he had spoken of his intention of leaving the service long ago. He had, however, always made more or less of a joke about it, so no one had taken him seriously. For that matter he joked about everything, and his friends never knew what to believe, especially if he did not wish them to understand him. "I have only retired for a time," said he, laughing. "For a few months; at most for a year." "But there is no necessity for you to retire at all," complained the general, "as far as I know." "I want to go and look after my country estates. You advised me to do that yourself," was the reply. "And then I wish to go abroad." After a few more expostulations, the conversation drifted into other channels, but the prince, who had been an attentive listener, thought all this excitement about so small a matter very curious. "There must be more in it than appears," he said to himself. "I see the 'poor knight' has come on the scene again," said Evgenie Pavlovitch, stepping to Aglaya's side. To the amazement of the prince, who overheard the remark, Aglaya looked haughtily and inquiringly at the questioner, as though she would give him to know, once for all, that there could be no talk between them about the 'poor knight,' and that she did not understand his question. "But not now! It is too late to send to town for a Pushkin now. It is much too late, I say!" Colia was exclaiming in a loud voice. "I have told you so at least a hundred times." "Yes, it is really much too late to send to town now," said Evgenie Pavlovitch, who had escaped from Aglaya as rapidly as possible. "I am sure the shops are shut in Petersburg; it is past eight o'clock," he added, looking at his watch. "We have done without him so far," interrupted Adelaida in her turn. "Surely we can wait until to-morrow." "Besides," said Colia, "it is quite unusual, almost improper, for people in our position to take any interest in literature. Ask Evgenie Pavlovitch if I am not right. It is much more fashionable to drive a waggonette with red wheels." "You got that from some magazine, Colia," remarked Adelaida. "He gets most of his conversation in that way," laughed Evgenie Pavlovitch. "He borrows whole phrases from the reviews. I have long had the pleasure of knowing both Nicholai Ardalionovitch and his conversational methods, but this time he was not repeating something he had read; he was alluding, no doubt, to my yellow waggonette, which has, or had, red wheels. But I have exchanged it, so you are rather behind the times, Colia." The prince had been listening attentively to Radomski's words, and thought his manner very pleasant. When Colia chaffed him about his waggonette he had replied with perfect equality and in a friendly fashion. This pleased Muishkin. At this moment Vera came up to Lizabetha Prokofievna, carrying several large and beautifully bound books, apparently quite new. "What is it?" demanded the lady. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 158 "This is Pushkin," replied the girl. "Papa told me to offer it to you." "What? Impossible!" exclaimed Mrs. Epanchin. "Not as a present, not as a present! I should not have taken the liberty," said Lebedeff, appearing suddenly from behind his daughter. "It is our own Pushkin, our family copy, Annenkoff's edition; it could not be bought now. I beg to suggest, with great respect, that your excellency should buy it, and thus quench the noble literary thirst which is consuming you at this moment," he concluded grandiloquently. "Oh! if you will sell it, very good--and thank you. You shall not be a loser! But for goodness' sake, don't twist about like that, sir! I have heard of you; they tell me you are a very learned person. We must have a talk one of these days. You will bring me the books yourself?" "With the greatest respect ... and ... and veneration," replied Lebedeff, making extraordinary grimaces. "Well, bring them, with or without respect, provided always you do not drop them on the way; but on the condition," went on the lady, looking full at him, "that you do not cross my threshold. I do not intend to receive you today. You may send your daughter Vera at once, if you like. I am much pleased with her." "Why don't you tell him about them?" said Vera impatiently to her father. "They will come in, whether you announce them or not, and they are beginning to make a row. Lef Nicolaievitch,"--she addressed herself to the prince--"four men are here asking for you. They have waited some time, and are beginning to make a fuss, and papa will not bring them in." "Who are these people?" said the prince. "They say that they have come on business, and they are the kind of men, who, if you do not see them here, will follow you about the street. It would be better to receive them, and then you will get rid of them. Gavrila Ardalionovitch and Ptitsin are both there, trying to make them hear reason." "Pavlicheff's son! It is not worth while!" cried Lebedeff. "There is no necessity to see them, and it would be most unpleasant for your excellency. They do not deserve ..." "What? Pavlicheff's son!" cried the prince, much perturbed. "I know ... I know--but I entrusted this matter to Gavrila Ardalionovitch. He told me ..." At that moment Gania, accompanied by Ptitsin, came out to the terrace. From an adjoining room came a noise of angry voices, and General Ivolgin, in loud tones, seemed to be trying to shout them down. Colia rushed off at once to investigate the cause of the uproar. "This is most interesting!" observed Evgenie Pavlovitch. "I expect he knows all about it!" thought the prince. "What, the son of Pavlicheff? And who may this son of Pavlicheff be?" asked General Epanchin with surprise; and looking curiously around him, he discovered that he alone had no clue to the mystery. Expectation and suspense were on every face, with the exception of that of the prince, who stood gravely wondering how an affair so entirely personal could have awakened such lively and widespread interest in so short a time. Aglaya went up to him with a peculiarly serious look "It will be well," she said, "if you put an end to this affair yourself AT ONCE: but you must allow us to be by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 159 your witnesses. They want to throw mud at you, prince, and you must be triumphantly vindicated. I give you joy beforehand!" "And I also wish for justice to be done, once for all," cried Madame Epanchin, "about this impudent claim. Deal with them promptly, prince, and don't spare them! I am sick of hearing about the affair, and many a quarrel I have had in your cause. But I confess I am anxious to see what happens, so do make them come out here, and we will remain. You have heard people talking about it, no doubt?" she added, turning to Prince S. "Of course," said he. "I have heard it spoken about at your house, and I am anxious to see these young men!" "They are Nihilists, are they not?" "No, they are not Nihilists," explained Lebedeff, who seemed much excited. "This is another lot--a special group. According to my nephew they are more advanced even than the Nihilists. You are quite wrong, excellency, if you think that your presence will intimidate them; nothing intimidates them. Educated men, learned men even, are to be found among Nihilists; these go further, in that they are men of action. The movement is, properly speaking, a derivative from Nihilism--though they are only known indirectly, and by hearsay, for they never advertise their doings in the papers. They go straight to the point. For them, it is not a question of showing that Pushkin is stupid, or that Russia must be torn in pieces. No; but if they have a great desire for anything, they believe they have a right to get it even at the cost of the lives, say, of eight persons. They are checked by no obstacles. In fact, prince, I should not advise you ..." But Muishkin had risen, and was on his way to open the door for his visitors. "You are slandering them, Lebedeff," said he, smiling. "You are always thinking about your nephew's conduct. Don't believe him, Lizabetha Prokofievna. I can assure you Gorsky and Daniloff are exceptions--and that these are only ... mistaken. However, I do not care about receiving them here, in public. Excuse me, Lizabetha Prokofievna. They are coming, and you can see them, and then I will take them away. Please come in, gentlemen!" Another thought tormented him: He wondered was this an arranged business--arranged to happen when he had guests in his house, and in anticipation of his humiliation rather than of his triumph? But he reproached himself bitterly for such a thought, and felt as if he should die of shame if it were discovered. When his new visitors appeared, he was quite ready to believe himself infinitely less to be respected than any of them. Four persons entered, led by General Ivolgin, in a state of great excitement, and talking eloquently. "He is for me, undoubtedly!" thought the prince, with a smile. Colia also had joined the party, and was talking with animation to Hippolyte, who listened with a jeering smile on his lips. The prince begged the visitors to sit down. They were all so young that it made the proceedings seem even more extraordinary. Ivan Fedorovitch, who really understood nothing of what was going on, felt indignant at the sight of these youths, and would have interfered in some way had it not been for the extreme interest shown by his wife in the affair. He therefore remained, partly through curiosity, partly through good-nature, hoping that his presence might be of some use. But the bow with which General Ivolgin greeted him irritated him anew; he frowned, and decided to be absolutely silent. As to the rest, one was a man of thirty, the retired officer, now a boxer, who had been with Rogojin, and in his happier days had given fifteen roubles at a time to beggars. Evidently he had joined the others as a comrade to give them moral, and if necessary material, support. The man who had been spoken of as "Pavlicheff's son," although he gave the name of Antip Burdovsky, was about twenty-two years of age, fair, thin and rather tall. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 160 He was remarkable for the poverty, not to say uncleanliness, of his personal appearance: the sleeves of his overcoat were greasy; his dirty waistcoat, buttoned up to his neck, showed not a trace of linen; a filthy black silk scarf, twisted till it resembled a cord, was round his neck, and his hands were unwashed. He looked round with an air of insolent effrontery. His face, covered with pimples, was neither thoughtful nor even contemptuous; it wore an expression of complacent satisfaction in demanding his rights and in being an aggrieved party. His voice trembled, and he spoke so fast, and with such stammerings, that he might have been taken for a foreigner, though the purest Russian blood ran in his veins. Lebedeff's nephew, whom the reader has seen already, accompanied him, and also the youth named Hippolyte Terentieff. The latter was only seventeen or eighteen. He had an intelligent face, though it was usually irritated and fretful in expression. His skeleton-like figure, his ghastly complexion, the brightness of his eyes, and the red spots of colour on his cheeks, betrayed the victim of consumption to the most casual glance. He coughed persistently, and panted for breath; it looked as though he had but a few weeks more to live. He was nearly dead with fatigue, and fell, rather than sat, into a chair. The rest bowed as they came in; and being more or less abashed, put on an air of extreme self-assurance. In short, their attitude was not that which one would have expected in men who professed to despise all trivialities, all foolish mundane conventions, and indeed everything, except their own personal interests. "Antip Burdovsky," stuttered the son of Pavlicheff. "Vladimir Doktorenko," said Lebedeff's nephew briskly, and with a certain pride, as if he boasted of his name. "Keller," murmured the retired officer. "Hippolyte Terentieff," cried the last-named, in a shrill voice. They sat now in a row facing the prince, and frowned, and played with their caps. All appeared ready to speak, and yet all were silent; the defiant expression on their faces seemed to say, "No, sir, you don't take us in!" It could be felt that the first word spoken by anyone present would bring a torrent of speech from the whole deputation. VIII. "I DID not expect you, gentlemen," began the prince. I have been ill until to-day. A month ago," he continued, addressing himself to Antip Burdovsky, "I put your business into Gavrila Ardalionovitch Ivolgin's hands, as I told you then. I do not in the least object to having a personal interview ... but you will agree with me that this is hardly the time ... I propose that we go into another room, if you will not keep me long... As you see, I have friends here, and believe me ..." "Friends as many as you please, but allow me," interrupted the harsh voice of Lebedeff's nephew--" allow me to tell you that you might have treated us rather more politely, and not have kept us waiting at least two hours ... "No doubt ... and I ... is that acting like a prince? And you ... you may be a general! But I ... I am not your valet! And I ... I..." stammered Antip Burdovsky. He was extremely excited; his lips trembled, and the resentment of an embittered soul was in his voice. But he spoke so indistinctly that hardly a dozen words could be gathered. "It was a princely action!" sneered Hippolyte. "If anyone had treated me so," grumbled the boxer. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 161 "I mean to say that if I had been in Burdovsky's place...I..." "Gentlemen, I did not know you were there; I have only just been informed, I assure you," repeated Muishkin. "We are not afraid of your friends, prince," remarked Lebedeff's nephew, "for we are within our rights." The shrill tones of Hippolyte interrupted him. "What right have you ... by what right do you demand us to submit this matter, about Burdovsky ... to the judgment of your friends? We know only too well what the judgment of your friends will be! ..." This beginning gave promise of a stormy discussion. The prince was much discouraged, but at last he managed to make himself heard amid the vociferations of his excited visitors. "If you," he said, addressing Burdovsky--"if you prefer not to speak here, I offer again to go into another room with you ... and as to your waiting to see me, I repeat that I only this instant heard ..." "Well, you have no right, you have no right, no right at all!... Your friends indeed!"... gabbled Burdovsky, defiantly examining the faces round him, and becoming more and more excited. "You have no right!..." As he ended thus abruptly, he leant forward, staring at the prince with his short-sighted, bloodshot eyes. The latter was so astonished, that he did not reply, but looked steadily at him in return. "Lef Nicolaievitch!" interposed Madame Epanchin, suddenly, "read this at once, this very moment! It is about this business." She held out a weekly comic paper, pointing to an article on one of its pages. Just as the visitors were coming in, Lebedeff, wishing to ingratiate himself with the great lady, had pulled this paper from his pocket, and presented it to her, indicating a few columns marked in pencil. Lizabetha Prokofievna had had time to read some of it, and was greatly upset. "Would it not be better to peruse it alone ..." later asked the prince, nervously. "No, no, read it--read it at once directly, and aloud, aloud!" cried she, calling Colia to her and giving him the journal.--" Read it aloud, so that everyone may hear it!" An impetuous woman, Lizabetha Prokofievna sometimes weighed her anchors and put out to sea quite regardless of the possible storms she might encounter. Ivan Fedorovitch felt a sudden pang of alarm, but the others were merely curious, and somewhat surprised. Colia unfolded the paper, and began to read, in his clear, high-pitched voice, the following article: "Proletarians and scions of nobility! An episode of the brigandage of today and every day! Progress! Reform! Justice!" "Strange things are going on in our so-called Holy Russia in this age of reform and great enterprises; this age of patriotism in which hundreds of millions are yearly sent abroad; in which industry is encouraged, and the hands of Labour paralyzed, etc.; there is no end to this, gentlemen, so let us come to the point. A strange thing has happened to a scion of our defunct aristocracy. (DE PROFUNDIS!) The grandfathers of these scions ruined themselves at the gaming-tables; their fathers were forced to serve as officers or subalterns; some have died just as they were about to be tried for innocent thoughtlessness in the handling of public funds. Their children are sometimes congenital idiots, like the hero of our story; sometimes they are found in the dock at the Assizes, where they are generally acquitted by the jury for edifying motives; sometimes they distinguish themselves by one of those burning scandals that amaze the public and add another blot to the stained record of our age. Six months ago--that is, last winter--this particular scion returned to Russia, wearing gaiters like a by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 162 foreigner, and shivering with cold in an old scantily-lined cloak. He had come from Switzerland, where he had just undergone a successful course of treatment for idiocy (SIC!). Certainly Fortune favoured him, for, apart from the interesting malady of which he was cured in Switzerland (can there be a cure for idiocy?) his story proves the truth of the Russian proverb that 'happiness is the right of certain classes!' Judge for yourselves. Our subject was an infant in arms when he lost his father, an officer who died just as he was about to be court-martialled for gambling away the funds of his company, and perhaps also for flogging a subordinate to excess (remember the good old days, gentlemen). The orphan was brought up by the charity of a very rich Russian landowner. In the good old days, this man, whom we will call P--, owned four thousand souls as serfs (souls as serfs!--can you understand such an expression, gentlemen? I cannot; it must be looked up in a dictionary before one can understand it; these things of a bygone day are already unintelligible to us). He appears to have been one of those Russian parasites who lead an idle existence abroad, spending the summer at some spa, and the winter in Paris, to the greater profit of the organizers of public balls. It may safely be said that the manager of the Chateau des Fleurs (lucky man!) pocketed at least a third of the money paid by Russian peasants to their lords in the days of serfdom. However this may be, the gay P-- brought up the orphan like a prince, provided him with tutors and governesses (pretty, of course!) whom he chose himself in Paris. But the little aristocrat, the last of his noble race, was an idiot. The governesses, recruited at the Chateau des Fleurs, laboured in vain; at twenty years of age their pupil could not speak in any language, not even Russian. But ignorance of the latter was still excusable. At last P-- was seized with a strange notion; he imagined that in Switzerland they could change an idiot into a mail of sense. After all, the idea was quite logical; a parasite and landowner naturally supposed that intelligence was a marketable commodity like everything else, and that in Switzerland especially it could be bought for money. The case was entrusted to a celebrated Swiss professor, and cost thousands of roubles; the treatment lasted five years. Needless to say, the idiot did not become intelligent, but it is alleged that he grew into something more or less resembling a man. At this stage P-- died suddenly, and, as usual, he had made no will and left his affairs in disorder. A crowd of eager claimants arose, who cared nothing about any last scion of a noble race undergoing treatment in Switzerland, at the expense of the deceased, as a congenital idiot. Idiot though he was, the noble scion tried to cheat his professor, and they say he succeeded in getting him to continue the treatment gratis for two years, by concealing the death of his benefactor. But the professor himself was a charlatan. Getting anxious at last when no money was forthcoming, and alarmed above all by his patient's appetite, he presented him with a pair of old gaiters and a shabby cloak and packed him off to Russia, third class. It would seem that Fortune had turned her back upon our hero. Not at all; Fortune, who lets whole populations die of hunger, showered all her gifts at once upon the little aristocrat, like Kryloff's Cloud which passes over an arid plain and empties itself into the sea. He had scarcely arrived in St. Petersburg, when a relation of his mother's (who was of bourgeois origin, of course), died at Moscow. He was a merchant, an Old Believer, and he had no children. He left a fortune of several millions in good current coin, and everything came to our noble scion, our gaitered baron, formerly treated for idiocy in a Swiss lunatic asylum. Instantly the scene changed, crowds of friends gathered round our baron, who meanwhile had lost his head over a celebrated demi-mondaine; he even discovered some relations; moreover a number of young girls of high birth burned to be united to him in lawful matrimony. Could anyone possibly imagine a better match? Aristocrat, millionaire, and idiot, he has every advantage! One might hunt in vain for his equal, even with the lantern of Diogenes; his like is not to be had even by getting it made to order!" "Oh, I don't know what this means" cried Ivan Fedorovitch, transported with indignation. "Leave off, Colia," begged the prince. Exclamations arose on all sides. "Let him go on reading at all costs!" ordered Lizabetha Prokofievna, evidently preserving her composure by a desperate effort. "Prince, if the reading is stopped, you and I will quarrel." Colia had no choice but to obey. With crimson cheeks he read on unsteadily: "But while our young millionaire dwelt as it were in the Empyrean, something new occurred. One fine by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 163 morning a man called upon him, calm and severe of aspect, distinguished, but plainly dressed. Politely, but in dignified terms, as befitted his errand, he briefly explained the motive for his visit. He was a lawyer of enlightened views; his client was a young man who had consulted him in confidence. This young man was no other than the son of P--, though he bears another name. In his youth P--, the sensualist, had seduced a young girl, poor but respectable. She was a serf, but had received a European education. Finding that a child was expected, he hastened her marriage with a man of noble character who had loved her for a long time. He helped the young couple for a time, but he was soon obliged to give up, for the high-minded husband refused to accept anything from him. Soon the careless nobleman forgot all about his former mistress and the child she had borne him; then, as we know, he died intestate. P-- 's son, born after his mother's marriage, found a true father in the generous man whose name he bore. But when he also died, the orphan was left to provide for himself, his mother now being an invalid who had lost the use of her limbs. Leaving her in a distant province, he came to the capital in search of pupils. By dint of daily toil he earned enough to enable him to follow the college courses, and at last to enter the university. But what can one earn by teaching the children of Russian merchants at ten copecks a lesson, especially with an invalid mother to keep? Even her death did not much diminish the hardships of the young man's struggle for existence. Now this is the question: how, in the name of justice, should our scion have argued the case? Our readers will think, no doubt, that he would say to himself: 'P-- showered benefits upon me all my life; he spent tens of thousands of roubles to educate me, to provide me with governesses, and to keep me under treatment in Switzerland. Now I am a millionaire, and P--'s son, a noble young man who is not responsible for the faults of his careless and forgetful father, is wearing himself out giving ill-paid lessons. According to justice, all that was done for me ought to have been done for him. The enormous sums spent upon me were not really mine; they came to me by an error of blind Fortune, when they ought to have gone to P--'s son. They should have gone to benefit him, not me, in whom P-- interested himself by a mere caprice, instead of doing his duty as a father. If I wished to behave nobly, justly, and with delicacy, I ought to bestow half my fortune upon the son of my benefactor; but as economy is my favourite virtue, and I know this is not a case in which the law can intervene, I will not give up half my millions. But it would be too openly vile, too flagrantly infamous, if I did not at least restore to P--'s son the tens of thousands of roubles spent in curing my idiocy. This is simply a case of conscience and of strict justice. Whatever would have become of me if P-- had not looked after my education, and had taken care of his own son instead of me?' "No, gentlemen, our scions of the nobility do not reason thus. The lawyer, who had taken up the matter purely out of friendship to the young man, and almost against his will, invoked every consideration of justice, delicacy, honour, and even plain figures; in vain, the ex-patient of the Swiss lunatic asylum was inflexible. All this might pass, but the sequel is absolutely unpardonable, and not to be excused by any interesting malady. This millionaire, having but just discarded the old gaiters of his professor, could not even understand that the noble young man slaving away at his lessons was not asking for charitable help, but for his rightful due, though the debt was not a legal one; that, correctly speaking, he was not asking for anything, but it was merely his friends who had thought fit to bestir themselves on his behalf. With the cool insolence of a bloated capitalist, secure in his millions, he majestically drew a banknote for fifty roubles from his pocket-book and sent it to the noble young man as a humiliating piece of charity. You can hardly believe it, gentlemen! You are scandalized and disgusted; you cry out in indignation! But that is what he did! Needless to say, the money was returned, or rather flung back in his face. The case is not within the province of the law, it must be referred to the tribunal of public opinion; this is what we now do, guaranteeing the truth of all the details which we have related." When Colia had finished reading, he handed the paper to the prince, and retired silently to a corner of the room, hiding his face in his hands. He was overcome by a feeling of inexpressible shame; his boyish sensitiveness was wounded beyond endurance. It seemed to him that something extraordinary, some sudden catastrophe had occurred, and that he was almost the cause of it, because he had read the article aloud. Yet all the others were similarly affected. The girls were uncomfortable and ashamed. Lizabetha Prokofievna restrained her violent anger by a great effort; perhaps she bitterly regretted her interference in the matter; for by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 164 the present she kept silence. The prince felt as very shy people often do in such a case; he was so ashamed of the conduct of other people, so humiliated for his guests, that he dared not look them in the face. Ptitsin, Varia, Gania, and Lebedeff himself, all looked rather confused. Stranger still, Hippolyte and the "son of Pavlicheff" also seemed slightly surprised, and Lebedeff's nephew was obviously far from pleased. The boxer alone was perfectly calm; he twisted his moustaches with affected dignity, and if his eyes were cast down it was certainly not in confusion, but rather in noble modesty, as if he did not wish to be insolent in his triumph. It was evident that he was delighted with the article. "The devil knows what it means," growled Ivan Fedorovitch, under his breath; "it must have taken the united wits of fifty footmen to write it." "May I ask your reason for such an insulting supposition, sir?" said Hippolyte, trembling with rage. You will admit yourself, general, that for an honourable man, if the author is an honourable man, that is an--an insult," growled the boxer suddenly, with convulsive jerkings of his shoulders. "In the first place, it is not for you to address me as 'sir,' and, in the second place, I refuse to give you any explanation," said Ivan Fedorovitch vehemently; and he rose without another word, and went and stood on the first step of the flight that led from the verandah to the street, turning his back on the company. He was indignant with Lizabetha Prokofievna, who did not think of moving even now. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, let me speak at last," cried the prince, anxious and agitated. "Please let us understand one another. I say nothing about the article, gentlemen, except that every word is false; I say this because you know it as well as I do. It is shameful. I should be surprised if any one of you could have written it." "I did not know of its existence till this moment," declared Hippolyte. "I do not approve of it." "I knew it had been written, but I would not have advised its publication," said Lebedeff's nephew, "because it is premature." "I knew it, but I have a right. I... I ... "stammered the "son of Pavlicheff." "What! Did you write all that yourself? Is it possible?" asked the prince, regarding Burdovsky with curiosity. "One might dispute your right to ask such questions," observed Lebedeff's nephew. "I was only surprised that Mr. Burdovsky should have--however, this is what I have to say. Since you had already given the matter publicity, why did you object just now, when I began to speak of it to my friends?" "At last!" murmured Lizabetha Prokofievna indignantly. Lebedeff could restrain himself no longer; he made his way through the row of chairs. "Prince," he cried, "you are forgetting that if you consented to receive and hear them, it was only because of your kind heart which has no equal, for they had not the least right to demand it, especially as you had placed the matter in the hands of Gavrila Ardalionovitch, which was also extremely kind of you. You are also forgetting, most excellent prince, that you are with friends, a select company; you cannot sacrifice them to these gentlemen, and it is only for you to have them turned out this instant. As the master of the house I shall have great pleasure ...." "Quite right!" agreed General Ivolgin in a loud voice. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 165 "That will do, Lebedeff, that will do--" began the prince, when an indignant outcry drowned his words. "Excuse me, prince, excuse me, but now that will not do," shouted Lebedeff's nephew, his voice dominating all the others. "The matter must be clearly stated, for it is obviously not properly understood. They are calling in some legal chicanery, and upon that ground they are threatening to turn us out of the house! Really, prince, do you think we are such fools as not to be aware that this matter does not come within the law, and that legally we cannot claim a rouble from you? But we are also aware that if actual law is not on our side, human law is for us, natural law, the law of common-sense and conscience, which is no less binding upon every noble and honest man--that is, every man of sane judgment--because it is not to be found in miserable legal codes. If we come here without fear of being turned out (as was threatened just now) because of the imperative tone of our demand, and the unseemliness of such a visit at this late hour (though it was not late when we arrived, we were kept waiting in your anteroom), if, I say, we came in without fear, it is just because we expected to find you a man of sense; I mean, a man of honour and conscience. It is quite true that we did not present ourselves humbly, like your flatterers and parasites, but holding up our heads as befits independent men. We present no petition, but a proud and free demand (note it well, we do not beseech, we demand!). We ask you fairly and squarely in a dignified manner. Do you believe that in this affair of Burdovsky you have right on your side? Do you admit that Pavlicheff overwhelmed you with benefits, and perhaps saved your life? If you admit it (which we take for granted), do you intend, now that you are a millionaire, and do you not think it in conformity with justice, to indemnify Burdovsky? Yes or no? If it is yes, or, in other words, if you possess what you call honour and conscience, and we more justly call common-sense, then accede to our demand, and the matter is at an end. Give us satisfaction, without entreaties or thanks from us; do not expect thanks from us, for what you do will be done not for our sake, but for the sake of justice. If you refuse to satisfy us, that is, if your answer is no, we will go away at once, and there will be an end of the matter. But we will tell you to your face before the present company that you are a man of vulgar and undeveloped mind; we will openly deny you the right to speak in future of your honour and conscience, for you have not paid the fair price of such a right. I have no more to say--I have put the question before you. Now turn us out if you dare. You can do it; force is on your side. But remember that we do not beseech, we demand! We do not beseech, we demand!" With these last excited words, Lebedeff's nephew was silent. "We demand, we demand, we demand, we do not beseech," spluttered Burdovsky, red as a lobster. The speech of Lebedeff's nephew caused a certain stir among the company; murmurs arose, though with the exception of Lebedeff, who was still very much excited, everyone was careful not to interfere in the matter. Strangely enough, Lebedeff, although on the prince's side, seemed quite proud of his nephew's eloquence. Gratified vanity was visible in the glances he cast upon the assembled company. "In my opinion, Mr. Doktorenko," said the prince, in rather a low voice, "you are quite right in at least half of what you say. I would go further and say that you are altogether right, and that I quite agree with you, if there were not something lacking in your speech. I cannot undertake to say precisely what it is, but you have certainly omitted something, and you cannot be quite just while there is something lacking. But let us put that aside and return to the point. Tell me what induced you to publish this article. Every word of it is a calumny, and I think, gentlemen, that you have been guilty of a mean action." "Allow me--" "Sir--" "What? What? What?" cried all the visitors at once, in violent agitation. "As to the article," said Hippolyte in his croaking voice, "I have told you already that we none of us approve by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 166 of it! There is the writer," he added, pointing to the boxer, who sat beside him. "I quite admit that he has written it in his old regimental manner, with an equal disregard for style and decency. I know he is a cross between a fool and an adventurer; I make no bones about telling him so to his face every day. But after all he is half justified; publicity is the lawful right of every man; consequently, Burdovsky is not excepted. Let him answer for his own blunders. As to the objection which I made just now in the name of all, to the presence of your friends, I think I ought to explain, gentlemen, that I only did so to assert our rights, though we really wished to have witnesses; we had agreed unanimously upon the point before we came in. We do not care who your witnesses may be, or whether they are your friends or not. As they cannot fail to recognize Burdovsky's right (seeing that it is mathematically demonstrable), it is just as well that the witnesses should be your friends. The truth will only be more plainly evident." "It is quite true; we had agreed upon that point," said Lebedeff's nephew, in confirmation. "If that is the case, why did you begin by making such a fuss about it?" asked the astonished prince. The boxer was dying to get in a few words; owing, no doubt, to the presence of the ladies, he was becoming quite jovial. "As to the article, prince," he said, "I admit that I wrote it, in spite of the severe criticism of my poor friend, in whom I always overlook many things because of his unfortunate state of health. But I wrote and published it in the form of a letter, in the paper of a friend. I showed it to no one but Burdovsky, and I did not read it all through, even to him. He immediately gave me permission to publish it, but you will admit that I might have done so without his consent. Publicity is a noble, beneficent, and universal right. I hope, prince, that you are too progressive to deny this?" "I deny nothing, but you must confess that your article--" "Is a bit thick, you mean? Well, in a way that is in the public interest; you will admit that yourself, and after all one cannot overlook a blatant fact. So much the worse for the guilty parties, but the public welfare must come before everything. As to certain inaccuracies and figures of speech, so to speak, you will also admit that the motive, aim, and intention, are the chief thing. It is a question, above all, of making a wholesome example; the individual case can be examined afterwards; and as to the style--well, the thing was meant to be humorous, so to speak, and, after all, everybody writes like that; you must admit it yourself! Ha, ha!" "But, gentlemen, I assure you that you are quite astray," exclaimed the prince. "You have published this article upon the supposition that I would never consent to satisfy Mr. Burdovsky. Acting on that conviction, you have tried to intimidate me by this publication and to be revenged for my supposed refusal. But what did you know of my intentions? It may be that I have resolved to satisfy Mr. Burdovsky's claim. I now declare openly, in the presence of these witnesses, that I will do so." "The noble and intelligent word of an intelligent and most noble man, at last!" exclaimed the boxer. "Good God!" exclaimed Lizabetha Prokofievna involuntarily. "This is intolerable," growled the general. "Allow me, gentlemen, allow me," urged the prince. "I will explain matters to you. Five weeks ago I received a visit from Tchebaroff, your agent, Mr. Burdovsky. You have given a very flattering description of him in your article, Mr. Keller," he continued, turning to the boxer with a smile, "but he did not please me at all. I saw at once that Tchebaroff was the moving spirit in the matter, and, to speak frankly, I thought he might have induced you, Mr. Burdovsky, to make this claim, by by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 167 taking advantage of your simplicity." "You have no right.... I am not simple," stammered Burdovsky, much agitated. "You have no sort of right to suppose such things," said Lebedeff's nephew in a tone of authority. "It is most offensive!" shrieked Hippolyte; "it is an insulting suggestion, false, and most ill-timed." "I beg your pardon, gentlemen; please excuse me," said the prince. "I thought absolute frankness on both sides would be best, but have it your own way. I told Tchebaroff that, as I was not in Petersburg, I would commission a friend to look into the matter without delay, and that I would let you know, Mr. Burdovsky. Gentlemen, I have no hesitation in telling you that it was the fact of Tchebaroff's intervention that made me suspect a fraud. Oh! do not take offence at my words, gentlemen, for Heaven's sake do not be so touchy!" cried the prince, seeing that Burdovsky was getting excited again, and that the rest were preparing to protest. "If I say I suspected a fraud, there is nothing personal in that. I had never seen any of you then; I did not even know your names; I only judged by Tchebaroff; I am speaking quite generally--if you only knew how I have been 'done' since I came into my fortune!" "You are shockingly naive, prince," said Lebedeff's nephew in mocking tones. "Besides, though you are a prince and a millionaire, and even though you may really be simple and good-hearted, you can hardly be outside the general law," Hippolyte declared loudly. "Perhaps not; it is very possible," the prince agreed hastily, "though I do not know what general law you allude to. I will go on--only please do not take offence without good cause. I assure you I do not mean to offend you in the least. Really, it is impossible to speak three words sincerely without your flying into a rage! At first I was amazed when Tchebaroff told me that Pavlicheff had a son, and that he was in such a miserable position. Pavlicheff was my benefactor, and my father's friend. Oh, Mr. Keller, why does your article impute things to my father without the slightest foundation? He never squandered the funds of his company nor ill-treated his subordinates, I am absolutely certain of it; I cannot imagine how you could bring yourself to write such a calumny! But your assertions concerning Pavlicheff are absolutely intolerable! You do not scruple to make a libertine of that noble man; you call him a sensualist as coolly as if you were speaking the truth, and yet it would not be possible to find a chaster man. He was even a scholar of note, and in correspondence with several celebrated scientists, and spent large sums in the interests of science. As to his kind heart and his good actions, you were right indeed when you said that I was almost an idiot at that time, and could hardly understand anything--(I could speak and understand Russian, though),--but now I can appreciate what I remember--" "Excuse me," interrupted Hippolyte, "is not this rather sentimental? You said you wished to come to the point; please remember that it is after nine o'clock." "Very well, gentlemen--very well," replied the prince. "At first I received the news with mistrust, then I said to myself that I might be mistaken, and that Pavlicheff might possibly have had a son. But I was absolutely amazed at the readiness with which the son had revealed the secret of his birth at the expense of his mother's honour. For Tchebaroff had already menaced me with publicity in our interview. . . ." "What nonsense!" Lebedeff's nephew interrupted violently. "You have no right--you have no right!" cried Burdovsky. "The son is not responsible for the misdeeds of his father; and the mother is not to blame," added Hippolyte, with warmth. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 168 "That seems to me all the more reason for sparing her," said the prince timidly. "Prince, you are not only simple, but your simplicity is almost past the limit," said Lebedeff's nephew, with a sarcastic smile. "But what right had you?" said Hippolyte in a very strange tone. "None--none whatever," agreed the prince hastily. "I admit you are right there, but it was involuntary, and I immediately said to myself that my personal feelings had nothing to do with it,-- that if I thought it right to satisfy the demands of Mr. Burdovsky, out of respect for the memory of Pavlicheff, I ought to do so in any case, whether I esteemed Mr. Burdovsky or not. I only mentioned this, gentlemen, because it seemed so unnatural to me for a son to betray his mother's secret in such a way. In short, that is what convinced me that Tchebaroff must be a rogue, and that he had induced Mr. Burdovsky to attempt this fraud." "But this is intolerable!" cried the visitors, some of them starting to their feet. "Gentlemen, I supposed from this that poor Mr. Burdovsky must be a simple-minded man, quite defenceless, and an easy tool in the hands of rogues. That is why I thought it my duty to try and help him as 'Pavlicheff's son'; in the first place by rescuing him from the influence of Tchebaroff, and secondly by making myself his friend. I have resolved to give him ten thousand roubles; that is about the sum which I calculate that Pavlicheff must have spent on me." "What, only ten thousand!" cried Hippolyte. "Well, prince, your arithmetic is not up to much, or else you are mighty clever at it, though you affect the air of a simpleton," said Lebedeff's nephew. "I will not accept ten thousand roubles," said Burdovsky. "Accept, Antip," whispered the boxer eagerly, leaning past the back of Hippolyte's chair to give his friend this piece of advice. "Take it for the present; we can see about more later on." "Look here, Mr. Muishkin," shouted Hippolyte, "please understand that we are not fools, nor idiots, as your guests seem to imagine; these ladies who look upon us with such scorn, and especially this fine gentleman" (pointing to Evgenie Pavlovitch) "whom I have not the honour of knowing, though I think I have heard some talk about him--" "Really, really, gentlemen," cried the prince in great agitation, "you are misunderstanding me again. In the first place, Mr. Keller, you have greatly overestimated my fortune in your article. I am far from being a millionaire. I have barely a tenth of what you suppose. Secondly, my treatment in Switzerland was very far from costing tens of thousands of roubles. Schneider received six hundred roubles a year, and he was only paid for the first three years. As to the pretty governesses whom Pavlicheff is supposed to have brought from Paris, they only exist in Mr. Keller's imagination; it is another calumny. According to my calculations, the sum spent on me was very considerably under ten thousand roubles, but I decided on that sum, and you must admit that in paying a debt I could not offer Mr. Burdovsky more, however kindly disposed I might be towards him; delicacy forbids it; I should seem to be offering him charity instead of rightful payment. I don't know how you cannot see that, gentlemen! Besides, I had no intention of leaving the matter there. I meant to intervene amicably later on and help to improve poor Mr. Burdovsky's position. It is clear that he has been deceived, or he would never have agreed to anything so vile as the scandalous revelations about his mother in Mr. Keller's article. But, gentlemen, why are you getting angry again? Are we never to come to an understanding? Well, the event has proved me right! I have just seen with my own eyes the proof that my conjecture was correct!" he added, with increasing eagerness. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 169 He meant to calm his hearers, and did not perceive that his words had only increased their irritation. "What do you mean? What are you convinced of?" they demanded angrily. "In the first place, I have had the opportunity of getting a correct idea of Mr. Burdovsky. I see what he is for myself. He is an innocent man, deceived by everyone! A defenceless victim, who deserves indulgence! Secondly, Gavrila Ardalionovitch, in whose hands I had placed the matter, had his first interview with me barely an hour ago. I had not heard from him for some time, as I was away, and have been ill for three days since my return to St. Petersburg. He tells me that he has exposed the designs of Tchebaroff and has proof that justifies my opinion of him. I know, gentlemen, that many people think me an idiot. Counting upon my reputation as a man whose purse-strings are easily loosened, Tchebaroff thought it would be a simple matter to fleece me, especially by trading on my gratitude to Pavlicheff. But the main point is--listen, gentlemen, let me finish!--the main point is that Mr. Burdovsky is not Pavlicheff's son at all. Gavrila Ardalionovitch has just told me of his discovery, and assures me that he has positive proofs. Well, what do you think of that? It is scarcely credible, even after all the tricks that have been played upon me. Please note that we have positive proofs! I can hardly believe it myself, I assure you; I do not yet believe it; I am still doubtful, because Gavrila Ardalionovitch has not had time to go into details; but there can be no further doubt that Tchebaroff is a rogue! He has deceived poor Mr. Burdovsky, and all of you, gentlemen, who have come forward so nobly to support your friend--(he evidently needs support, I quite see that!). He has abused your credulity and involved you all in an attempted fraud, for when all is said and done this claim is nothing else!" "What! a fraud? What, he is not Pavlicheff's son? Impossible!" These exclamations but feebly expressed the profound bewilderment into which the prince's words had plunged Burdovsky's companions. "Certainly it is a fraud! Since Mr. Burdovsky is not Pavlicheff's son, his claim is neither more nor less than attempted fraud (supposing, of course, that he had known the truth), but the fact is that he has been deceived. I insist on this point in order to justify him; I repeat that his simple-mindedness makes him worthy of pity, and that he cannot stand alone; otherwise he would have behaved like a scoundrel in this matter. But I feel certain that he does not understand it! I was just the same myself before I went to Switzerland; I stammered incoherently; one tries to express oneself and cannot. I understand that. I am all the better able to pity Mr. Burdovsky, because I know from experience what it is to be like that, and so I have a right to speak. Well, though there is no such person as 'Pavlicheff's son,' and it is all nothing but a humbug, yet I will keep to my decision, and I am prepared to give up ten thousand roubles in memory of Pavlicheff. Before Mr. Burdovsky made this claim, I proposed to found a school with this money, in memory of my benefactor, but I shall honour his memory quite as well by giving the ten thousand roubles to Mr. Burdovsky, because, though he was not Pavlicheff's son, he was treated almost as though he were. That is what gave a rogue the opportunity of deceiving him; he really did think himself Pavlicheff's son. Listen, gentlemen; this matter must be settled; keep calm; do not get angry; and sit down! Gavrila Ardalionovitch will explain everything to you at once, and I confess that I am very anxious to hear all the details myself. He says that he has even been to Pskoff to see your mother, Mr. Burdovsky; she is not dead, as the article which was just read to us makes out. Sit down, gentlemen, sit down!" The prince sat down, and at length prevailed upon Burdovsky's company to do likewise. During the last ten or twenty minutes, exasperated by continual interruptions, he had raised his voice, and spoken with great vehemence. Now, no doubt, he bitterly regretted several words and expressions which had escaped him in his excitement. If he had not been driven beyond the limits of endurance, he would not have ventured to express certain conjectures so openly. He had no sooner sat down than his heart was torn by sharp remorse. Besides insulting Burdovsky with the supposition, made in the presence of witnesses, that he was suffering from the complaint for which he had himself been treated in Switzerland, he reproached himself with the grossest indelicacy in having offered him the ten thousand roubles before everyone. "I ought to have waited till by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 170 to-morrow and offered him the money when we were alone," thought Muishkin. "Now it is too late, the mischief is done! Yes, I am an idiot, an absolute idiot!" he said to himself, overcome with shame and regret. Till then Gavrila Ardalionovitch had sat apart in silence. When the prince called upon him, he came and stood by his side, and in a calm, clear voice began to render an account of the mission confided to him. All conversation ceased instantly. Everyone, especially the Burdovsky party, listened with the utmost curiosity. IX. "You will not deny, I am sure," said Gavrila Ardalionovitch, turning to Burdovsky, who sat looking at him with wide-open eyes, perplexed and astonished. You will not deny, seriously, that you were born just two years after your mother's legal marriage to Mr. Burdovsky, your father. Nothing would be easier than to prove the date of your birth from well-known facts; we can only look on Mr. Keller's version as a work of imagination, and one, moreover, extremely offensive both to you and your mother. Of course he distorted the truth in order to strengthen your claim, and to serve your interests. Mr. Keller said that he previously consulted you about his article in the paper, but did not read it to you as a whole. Certainly he could not have read that passage. .. . . "As a matter of fact, I did not read it," interrupted the boxer, "but its contents had been given me on unimpeachable authority, and I . . ." "Excuse me, Mr. Keller," interposed Gavrila Ardalionovitch. "Allow me to speak. I assure you your article shall be mentioned in its proper place, and you can then explain everything, but for the moment I would rather not anticipate. Quite accidentally, with the help of my sister, Varvara Ardalionovna Ptitsin, I obtained from one of her intimate friends, Madame Zoubkoff, a letter written to her twenty-five years ago, by Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff, then abroad. After getting into communication with this lady, I went by her advice to Timofei Fedorovitch Viazovkin, a retired colonel, and one of Pavlicheff's oldest friends. He gave me two more letters written by the latter when he was still in foreign parts. These three documents, their dates, and the facts mentioned in them, prove in the most undeniable manner, that eighteen months before your birth, Nicolai Andreevitch went abroad, where he remained for three consecutive years. Your mother, as you are well aware, has never been out of Russia. . . . It is too late to read the letters now; I am content to state the fact. But if you desire it, come to me tomorrow morning, bring witnesses and writing experts with you, and I will prove the absolute truth of my story. From that moment the question will be decided." These words caused a sensation among the listeners, and there was a general movement of relief. Burdovsky got up abruptly. "If that is true," said he, "I have been deceived, grossly deceived, but not by Tchebaroff: and for a long time past, a long time. I do not wish for experts, not I, nor to go to see you. I believe you. I give it up.... But I refuse the ten thousand roubles. Good-bye." "Wait five minutes more, Mr. Burdovsky," said Gavrila Ardalionovitch pleasantly. "I have more to say. Some rather curious and important facts have come to light, and it is absolutely necessary, in my opinion, that you should hear them. You will not regret, I fancy, to have the whole matter thoroughly cleared up." Burdovsky silently resumed his seat, and bent his head as though in profound thought. His friend, Lebedeff's nephew, who had risen to accompany him, also sat down again. He seemed much disappointed, though as self-confident as ever. Hippolyte looked dejected and sulky, as well as surprised. He had just been attacked by a violent fit of coughing, so that his handkerchief was stained with blood. The boxer looked thoroughly frightened. "Oh, Antip!" cried he in a miserable voice, "I did say to you the other day--the day before yesterday--that by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 171 perhaps you were not really Pavlicheff's son!" There were sounds of half-smothered laughter at this. "Now, that is a valuable piece of information, Mr. Keller," replied Gania. "However that may be, I have private information which convinces me that Mr. Burdovsky, though doubtless aware of the date of his birth, knew nothing at all about Pavlicheff's sojourn abroad. Indeed, he passed the greater part of his life out of Russia, returning at intervals for short visits. The journey in question is in itself too unimportant for his friends to recollect it after more than twenty years; and of course Mr. Burdovsky could have known nothing about it, for he was not born. As the event has proved, it was not impossible to find evidence of his absence, though I must confess that chance has helped me in a quest which might very well have come to nothing. It was really almost impossible for Burdovsky or Tchebaroff to discover these facts, even if it had entered their heads to try. Naturally they never dreamt... Here the voice of Hippolyte suddenly intervened. "Allow me, Mr. Ivolgin," he said irritably. "What is the good of all this rigmarole? Pardon me. All is now clear, and we acknowledge the truth of your main point. Why go into these tedious details? You wish perhaps to boast of the cleverness of your investigation, to cry up your talents as detective? Or perhaps your intention is to excuse Burdovsky, by roving that he took up the matter in ignorance? Well, I consider that extremely impudent on your part! You ought to know that Burdovsky has no need of being excused or justified by you or anyone else! It is an insult! The affair is quite painful enough for him without that. Will nothing make you understand?" "Enough! enough! Mr. Terentieff," interrupted Gania. "Don't excite yourself; you seem very ill, and I am sorry for that. I am almost done, but there are a few facts to which I must briefly refer, as I am convinced that they ought to be clearly explained once for all. . . ." A movement of impatience was noticed in his audience as he resumed: "I merely wish to state, for the information of all concerned, that the reason for Mr. Pavlicheff's interest in your mother, Mr. Burdovsky, was simply that she was the sister of a serf-girl with whom he was deeply in love in his youth, and whom most certainly he would have married but for her sudden death. I have proofs that this circumstance is almost, if not quite, forgotten. I may add that when your mother was about ten years old, Pavlicheff took her under his care, gave her a good education, and later, a considerable dowry. His relations were alarmed, and feared he might go so far as to marry her, but she gave her hand to a young land-surveyor named Burdovsky when she reached the age of twenty. I can even say definitely that it was a marriage of affection. After his wedding your father gave up his occupation as land- surveyor, and with his wife's dowry of fifteen thousand roubles went in for commercial speculations. As he had had no experience, he was cheated on all sides, and took to drink in order to forget his troubles. He shortened his life by his excesses, and eight years after his marriage he died. Your mother says herself that she was left in the direst poverty, and would have died of starvation had it not been for Pavlicheff, who generously allowed her a yearly pension of six hundred roubles. Many people recall his extreme fondness for you as a little boy. Your mother confirms this, and agrees with others in thinking that he loved you the more because you were a sickly child, stammering in your speech, and almost deformed--for it is known that all his life Nicolai Andreevitch had a partiality for unfortunates of every kind, especially children. In my opinion this is most important. I may add that I discovered yet another fact, the last on which I employed my detective powers. Seeing how fond Pavlicheff was of you,--it was thanks to him you went to school, and also had the advantage of special teachers--his relations and servants grew to believe that you were his son, and that your father had been betrayed by his wife. I may point out that this idea was only accredited generally during the last years of Pavlicheff's life, when his next-of-kin were trembling about the succession, when the earlier story was quite forgotten, and when all opportunity for discovering the truth had seemingly passed away. No doubt you, Mr. Burdovsky, heard this conjecture, and did not hesitate to accept it as true. I have had the honour of making your mother's acquaintance, and I find that she knows all about these by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 172 reports. What she does not know is that you, her son, should have listened to them so complaisantly. I found your respected mother at Pskoff, ill and in deep poverty, as she has been ever since the death of your benefactor. She told me with tears of gratitude how you had supported her; she expects much of you, and believes fervently in your future success..." "Oh, this is unbearable!" said Lebedeff's nephew impatiently. "What is the good of all this romancing?" "It is revolting and unseemly!" cried Hippolyte, jumping up in a fury. Burdovsky alone sat silent and motionless. "What is the good of it?" repeated Gavrila Ardalionovitch, with pretended surprise. "Well, firstly, because now perhaps Mr. Burdovsky is quite convinced that Mr. Pavlicheff's love for him came simply from generosity of soul, and not from paternal duty. It was most necessary to impress this fact upon his mind, considering that he approved of the article written by Mr. Keller. I speak thus because I look on you, Mr. Burdovsky, as an honourable man. Secondly, it appears that there was no intention of cheating in this case, even on the part of Tchebaroff. I wish to say this quite plainly, because the prince hinted a while ago that I too thought it an attempt at robbery and extortion. On the contrary, everyone has been quite sincere in the matter, and although Tchebaroff may be somewhat of a rogue, in this business he has acted simply as any sharp lawyer would do under the circumstances. He looked at it as a case that might bring him in a lot of money, and he did not calculate badly; because on the one hand he speculated on the generosity of the prince, and his gratitude to the late Mr. Pavlicheff, and on the other to his chivalrous ideas as to the obligations of honour and conscience. As to Mr. Burdovsky, allowing for his principles, we may acknowledge that he engaged in the business with very little personal aim in view. At the instigation of Tchebaroff and his other friends, he decided to make the attempt in the service of truth, progress, and humanity. In short, the conclusion may be drawn that, in spite of all appearances, Mr. Burdovsky is a man of irreproachable character, and thus the prince can all the more readily offer him his friendship, and the assistance of which he spoke just now..." "Hush! hush! Gavrila Ardalionovitch!" cried Muishkin in dismay, but it was too late. "I said, and I have repeated it over and over again," shouted Burdovsky furiously, "that I did not want the money. I will not take it... why...I will not... I am going away!" He was rushing hurriedly from the terrace, when Lebedeff's nephew seized his arms, and said something to him in a low voice. Burdovsky turned quickly, and drawing an addressed but unsealed envelope from his pocket, he threw it down on a little table beside the prince. "There's the money!... How dare you?...The money!" "Those are the two hundred and fifty roubles you dared to send him as a charity, by the hands of Tchebaroff," explained Doktorenko. "The article in the newspaper put it at fifty!" cried Colia. "I beg your pardon," said the prince, going up to Burdovsky. "I have done you a great wrong, but I did not send you that money as a charity, believe me. And now I am again to blame. I offended you just now." (The prince was much distressed; he seemed worn out with fatigue, and spoke almost incoherently.) "I spoke of swindling... but I did not apply that to you. I was deceived .... I said you were... afflicted... like me... But you are not like me... you give lessons... you support your mother. I said you had dishonoured your mother, but you love her. She says so herself... I did not know... Gavrila Ardalionovitch did not tell me that... Forgive me! I dared to offer you ten thousand roubles, but I was wrong. I ought to have done it differently, and now... there is no way of doing it, for you despise me..." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 173 "I declare, this is a lunatic asylum!" cried Lizabetha Prokofievna. "Of course it is a lunatic asylum!" repeated Aglaya sharply, but her words were overpowered by other voices. Everybody was talking loudly, making remarks and comments; some discussed the affair gravely, others laughed. Ivan Fedorovitch Epanchin was extremely indignant. He stood waiting for his wife with an air of offended dignity. Lebedeff's nephew took up the word again. "Well, prince, to do you justice, you certainly know how to make the most of your--let us call it infirmity, for the sake of politeness; you have set about offering your money and friendship in such a way that no self-respecting man could possibly accept them. This is an excess of ingenuousness or of malice--you ought to know better than anyone which word best fits the case." "Allow me, gentlemen," said Gavrila Ardalionovitch, who had just examined the contents of the envelope, "there are only a hundred roubles here, not two hundred and fifty. I point this out, prince, to prevent misunderstanding." "Never mind, never mind," said the prince, signing to him to keep quiet. "But we do mind," said Lebedeff's nephew vehemently. "Prince, your 'never mind' is an insult to us. We have nothing to hide; our actions can bear daylight. It is true that there are only a hundred roubles instead of two hundred and fifty, but it is all the same." "Why, no, it is hardly the same," remarked Gavrila Ardalionovitch, with an air of ingenuous surprise. "Don't interrupt, we are not such fools as you think, Mr. Lawyer," cried Lebedeff's nephew angrily. "Of course there is a difference between a hundred roubles and two hundred and fifty, but in this case the principle is the main point, and that a hundred and fifty roubles are missing is only a side issue. The point to be emphasized is that Burdovsky will not accept your highness's charity; he flings it back in your face, and it scarcely matters if there are a hundred roubles or two hundred and fifty. Burdovsky has refused ten thousand roubles; you heard him. He would not have returned even a hundred roubles if he was dishonest! The hundred and fifty roubles were paid to Tchebaroff for his travelling expenses. You may jeer at our stupidity and at our inexperience in business matters; you have done all you could already to make us look ridiculous; but do not dare to call us dishonest. The four of us will club together every day to repay the hundred and fifty roubles to the prince, if we have to pay it in instalments of a rouble at a time, but we will repay it, with interest. Burdovsky is poor, he has no millions. After his journey to see the prince Tchebaroff sent in his bill. We counted on winning... Who would not have done the same in such a case?" "Who indeed?" exclaimed Prince S. "I shall certainly go mad, if I stay here!" cried Lizabetha Prokofievna. "It reminds me," said Evgenie Pavlovitch, laughing, "of the famous plea of a certain lawyer who lately defended a man for murdering six people in order to rob them. He excused his client on the score of poverty. 'It is quite natural,' he said in conclusion, 'considering the state of misery he was in, that he should have thought of murdering these six people; which of you, gentlemen, would not have done the same in his place?'" "Enough," cried Lizabetha Prokofievna abruptly, trembling with anger, "we have had enough of this balderdash!" In a state of terrible excitement she threw back her head, with flaming eyes, casting looks of contempt and defiance upon the whole company, in which she could no longer distinguish friend from foe. She had restrained herself so long that she felt forced to vent her rage on somebody. Those who knew Lizabetha by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 174 Prokofievna saw at once how it was with her. "She flies into these rages sometimes," said Ivan Fedorovitch to Prince S. the next day, "but she is not often so violent as she was yesterday; it does not happen more than once in three years." "Be quiet, Ivan Fedorovitch! Leave me alone!" cried Mrs. Epanchin. "Why do you offer me your arm now? You had not sense enough to take me away before. You are my husband, you are a father, it was your duty to drag me away by force, if in my folly I refused to obey you and go quietly. You might at least have thought of your daughters. We can find our way out now without your help. Here is shame enough for a year! Wait a moment 'till I thank the prince! Thank you, prince, for the entertainment you have given us! It was most amusing to hear these young men... It is vile, vile! A chaos, a scandal, worse than a nightmare! Is it possible that there can be many such people on earth? Be quiet, Aglaya! Be quiet, Alexandra! It is none of your business! Don't fuss round me like that, Evgenie Pavlovitch; you exasperate me! So, my dear," she cried, addressing the prince, "you go so far as to beg their pardon! He says, 'Forgive me for offering you a fortune.' And you, you mountebank, what are you laughing at?" she cried, turning suddenly on Lebedeff's nephew. "'We refuse ten thousand roubles; we do not beseech, we demand!' As if he did not know that this idiot will call on them tomorrow to renew his offers of money and friendship. You will, won't you? You will? Come, will you, or won't you?" "I shall," said the prince, with gentle humility. "You hear him! You count upon it, too," she continued, turning upon Doktorenko. "You are as sure of him now as if you had the money in your pocket. And there you are playing the swaggerer to throw dust in our eyes! No, my dear sir, you may take other people in! I can see through all your airs and graces, I see your game!" "Lizabetha Prokofievna!" exclaimed the prince. "Come, Lizabetha Prokofievna, it is quite time for us to be going, we will take the prince with us," said Prince S. with a smile, in the coolest possible way. The girls stood apart, almost frightened; their father was positively horrified. Mrs. Epanchin's language astonished everybody. Some who stood a little way off smiled furtively, and talked in whispers. Lebedeff wore an expression of utmost ecstasy. "Chaos and scandal are to be found everywhere, madame," remarked Doktorenko, who was considerably put out of countenance. "Not like this! Nothing like the spectacle you have just given us, sir," answered Lizabetha Prokofievna, with a sort of hysterical rage. "Leave me alone, will you?" she cried violently to those around her, who were trying to keep her quiet. "No, Evgenie Pavlovitch, if, as you said yourself just now, a lawyer said in open court that he found it quite natural that a man should murder six people because he was in misery, the world must be coming to an end. I had not heard of it before. Now I understand everything. And this stutterer, won't he turn out a murderer?" she cried, pointing to Burdovsky, who was staring at her with stupefaction. "I bet he will! He will have none of your money, possibly, he will refuse it because his conscience will not allow him to accept it, but he will go murdering you by night and walking off with your cashbox, with a clear conscience! He does not call it a dishonest action but 'the impulse of a noble despair'; 'a negation'; or the devil knows what! Bah! everything is upside down, everyone walks head downwards. A young girl, brought up at home, suddenly jumps into a cab in the middle of the street, saying: 'Good-bye, mother, I married Karlitch, or Ivanitch, the other day!' And you think it quite right? You call such conduct estimable and natural? The 'woman question'? Look here," she continued, pointing to Colia, "the other day that whippersnapper told me that this was the whole meaning of the 'woman question.' But even supposing that your mother is a fool, you are none the less, bound to treat her with humanity. Why did you come here tonight so insolently? 'Give us our rights, but don't by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 175 dare to speak in our presence. Show us every mark of deepest respect, while we treat you like the scum of the earth.' The miscreants have written a tissue of calumny in their article, and these are the men who seek for truth, and do battle for the right! 'We do not beseech, we demand, you will get no thanks from us, because you will be acting to satisfy your own conscience!' What morality! But, good. heavens! if you declare that the prince's generosity will, excite no gratitude in you, he might answer that he is not, bound to be grateful to Pavlicheff, who also was only satisfying his own conscience. But you counted on the prince's, gratitude towards Pavlicheff; you never lent him any money; he owes you nothing; then what were you counting upon if not on his gratitude? And if you appeal to that sentiment in others, why should you expect to be exempted from it? They are mad! They say society is savage and. inhuman because it despises a young girl who has been seduced. But if you call society inhuman you imply that the young girl is made to suffer by its censure. How then, can you hold her up to the scorn of society in the newspapers without realizing that you are making her suffering, still greater? Madmen! Vain fools! They don't believe in God, they don't believe in Christ! But you are so eaten. up by pride and vanity, that you will end by devouring each other--that is my prophecy! Is not this absurd? Is it not monstrous chaos? And after all this, that shameless creature will go and beg their pardon! Are there many people like you? What are you smiling at? Because I am not ashamed to disgrace myself before you?--Yes, I am disgraced--it can't be helped now! But don't you jeer at me, you scum!" (this was aimed at Hippolyte). "He is almost at his last gasp, yet he corrupts others. You, have got hold of this lad "--(she pointed to Colia); "you, have turned his head, you have taught him to be an atheist, you don't believe in God, and you are not too old to be whipped, sir! A plague upon you! And so, Prince Lef Nicolaievitch, you will call on them tomorrow, will you?" she asked the prince breathlessly, for the second time. "Yes." "Then I will never speak to you again." She made a sudden movement to go, and then turned quickly back. "And you will call on that atheist?" she continued, pointing to Hippolyte. "How dare you grin at me like that?" she shouted furiously, rushing at the invalid, whose mocking smile drove her to distraction. Exclamations arose on all sides. "Lizabetha Prokofievna! Lizabetha Prokofievna! Lizabetha Prokofievna!" "Mother, this is disgraceful!" cried Aglaya. Mrs. Epanchin had approached Hippolyte and seized him firmly by the arm, while her eyes, blazing with fury, were fixed upon his face. "Do not distress yourself, Aglaya Ivanovitch," he answered calmly; "your mother knows that one cannot strike a dying man. I am ready to explain why I was laughing. I shall be delighted if you will let me--" A violent fit of coughing, which lasted a full minute, prevented him from finishing his sentence. "He is dying, yet he will not stop holding forth!" cried Lizabetha Prokofievna. She loosed her hold on his arm, almost terrified, as she saw him wiping the blood from his lips. "Why do you talk? You ought to go home to bed." "So I will," he whispered hoarsely. "As soon as I get home I will go to bed at once; and I know I shall be dead in a fortnight; Botkine told me so himself last week. That is why I should like to say a few farewell words, if you will let me." "But you must be mad! It is ridiculous! You should take care of yourself; what is the use of holding a conversation now? Go home to bed, do!" cried Mrs. Epanchin in horror. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 176 "When I do go to bed I shall never get up again," said Hippolyte, with a smile. "I meant to take to my bed yesterday and stay there till I died, but as my legs can still carry me, I put it off for two days, so as to come here with them to-day--but I am very tired." "Oh, sit down, sit down, why are you standing?" Lizabetha Prokofievna placed a chair for him with her own hands. "Thank you," he said gently. "Sit opposite to me, and let us talk. We must have a talk now, Lizabetha Prokofievna; I am very anxious for it." He smiled at her once more. "Remember that today, for the last time, I am out in the air, and in the company of my fellow-men, and that in a fortnight I shall I certainly be no longer in this world. So, in a way, this is my farewell to nature and to men. I am not very sentimental, but do you know, I am quite glad that all this has happened at Pavlofsk, where at least one can see a green tree." "But why talk now?" replied Lizabetha Prokofievna, more and more alarmed; "are quite feverish. Just now you would not stop shouting, and now you can hardly breathe. You are gasping." "I shall have time to rest. Why will you not grant my last wish? Do you know, Lizabetha Prokofievna, that I have dreamed of meeting you for a long while? I had often heard of you from Colia; he is almost the only person who still comes to see me. You are an original and eccentric woman; I have seen that for myself--Do you know, I have even been rather fond of you?" "Good heavens! And I very nearly struck him!" "You were prevented by Aglaya Ivanovna. I think I am not mistaken? That is your daughter, Aglaya Ivanovna? She is so beautiful that I recognized her directly, although I had never seen her before. Let me, at least, look on beauty for the last time in my life," he said with a wry smile. "You are here with the prince, and your husband, and a large company. Why should you refuse to gratify my last wish?" "Give me a chair!" cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, but she seized one for herself and sat down opposite to Hippolyte. "Colia, you must go home with him," she commanded and tomorrow I will come my self. " "Will you let me ask the prince for a cup of tea?... I am exhausted. Do you know what you might do, Lizabetha Prokofievna? I think you wanted to take the prince home with you for tea. Stay here, and let us spend the evening together. I am sure the prince will give us all some tea. Forgive me for being so free and easy-- but I know you are kind, and the prince is kind, too. In fact, we are all good-natured people--it is really quite comical." The prince bestirred himself to give orders. Lebedeff hurried out, followed by Vera. "It is quite true," said Mrs. Epanchin decisively. "Talk, but not too loud, and don't excite yourself. You have made me sorry for you. Prince, you don't deserve that I should stay and have tea with you, yet I will, all the same, but I won't apologize. I apologize to nobody! Nobody! It is absurd! However, forgive me, prince, if I blew you up--that is, if you like, of course. But please don't let me keep anyone," she added suddenly to her husband and daughters, in a tone of resentment, as though they had grievously offended her. "I can come home alone quite well." But they did not let her finish, and gathered round her eagerly. The prince immediately invited everyone to stay for tea, and apologized for not having thought of it before. The general murmured a few polite words, and asked Lizabetha Prokofievna if she did not feel cold on the terrace. He very nearly asked Hippolyte how long he had been at the University, but stopped himself in time. Evgenie Pavlovitch and Prince S. suddenly grew extremely gay and amiable. Adelaida and Alexandra had not recovered from their surprise, but it was now by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 177 mingled with satisfaction; in short, everyone seemed very much relieved that Lizabetha Prokofievna had got over her paroxysm. Aglaya alone still frowned, and sat apart in silence. All the other guests stayed on as well; no one wanted to go, not even General Ivolgin, but Lebedeff said something to him in passing which did not seem to please him, for he immediately went and sulked in a corner. The prince took care to offer tea to Burdovsky and his friends as well as the rest. The invitation made them rather uncomfortable. They muttered that they would wait for Hippolyte, and went and sat by themselves in a distant corner of the verandah. Tea was served at once; Lebedeff had no doubt ordered it for himself and his family before the others arrived. It was striking eleven. X. AFTER moistening his lips with the tea which Vera Lebedeff brought him, Hippolyte set the cup down on the table, and glanced round. He seemed confused and almost at a loss. "Just look, Lizabetha Prokofievna," he began, with a kind of feverish haste; "these china cups are supposed to be extremely valuable. Lebedeff always keeps them locked up in his china- cupboard; they were part of his wife's dowry. Yet he has brought them out tonight--in your honour, of course! He is so pleased--" He was about to add something else, but could not find the words. "There, he is feeling embarrassed; I expected as much," whispered Evgenie Pavlovitch suddenly in the prince's ear. "It is a bad sign; what do you think? Now, out of spite, he will come out with something so outrageous that even Lizabetha Prokofievna will not be able to stand it." Muishkin looked at him inquiringly. "You do not care if he does?" added Evgenie Pavlovitch. "Neither do I; in fact, I should be glad, merely as a proper punishment for our dear Lizabetha Prokofievna. I am very anxious that she should get it, without delay, and I shall stay till she does. You seem feverish." "Never mind; by-and-by; yes, I am not feeling well," said the prince impatiently, hardly listening. He had just heard Hippolyte mention his own name. "You don't believe it?" said the invalid, with a nervous laugh. "I don't wonder, but the prince will have no difficulty in believing it; he will not be at all surprised." "Do you hear, prince--do you hear that?" said Lizabetha Prokofievna, turning towards him. There was laughter in the group around her, and Lebedeff stood before her gesticulating wildly. "He declares that your humbug of a landlord revised this gentleman's article--the article that was read aloud just now--in which you got such a charming dressing-down." The prince regarded Lebedeff with astonishment. "Why don't you say something?" cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, stamping her foot. "Well," murmured the prince, with his eyes still fixed on Lebedeff, "I can see now that he did." "Is it true?" she asked eagerly. "Absolutely, your excellency," said Lebedeff, without the least hesitation. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 178 Mrs. Epanchin almost sprang up in amazement at his answer, and at the assurance of his tone. "He actually seems to boast of it!" she cried. "I am base--base!" muttered Lebedeff, beating his breast, and hanging his head. "What do I care if you are base or not? He thinks he has only to say, 'I am base,' and there is an end of it. As to you, prince, are you not ashamed?--I repeat, are you not ashamed, to mix with such riff-raff? I will never forgive you!" "The prince will forgive me!" said Lebedeff with emotional conviction. Keller suddenly left his seat, and approached Lizabetha. Prokofievna. "It was only out of generosity, madame," he said in a resonant voice, "and because I would not betray a friend in an awkward position, that I did not mention this revision before; though you heard him yourself threatening to kick us down the steps. To clear the matter up, I declare now that I did have recourse to his assistance, and that I paid him six roubles for it. But I did not ask him to correct my style; I simply went to him for information concerning the facts, of which I was ignorant to a great extent, and which he was competent to give. The story of the gaiters, the appetite in the Swiss professor's house, the substitution of fifty roubles for two hundred and fifty--all such details, in fact, were got from him. I paid him six roubles for them; but he did not correct the style." "I must state that I only revised the first part of the article," interposed Lebedeff with feverish impatience, while laughter rose from all around him; "but we fell out in the middle over one idea, so I never corrected the second part. Therefore I cannot be held responsible for the numerous grammatical blunders in it." "That is all he thinks of!" cried Lizabetha Prokofievna. "May I ask when this article was revised?" said Evgenie Pavlovitch to Keller. "Yesterday morning," he replied, "we had an interview which we all gave our word of honour to keep secret." "The very time when he was cringing before you and making protestations of devotion! Oh, the mean wretches! I will have nothing to do with your Pushkin, and your daughter shall not set foot in my house!" Lizabetha Prokofievna was about to rise, when she saw Hippolyte laughing, and turned upon him with irritation. "Well, sir, I suppose you wanted to make me look ridiculous?" "Heaven forbid!" he answered, with a forced smile. "But I am more than ever struck by your eccentricity, Lizabetha Prokofievna. I admit that I told you of Lebedeff's duplicity, on purpose. I knew the effect it would have on you,--on you alone, for the prince will forgive him. He has probably forgiven him already, and is racking his brains to find some excuse for him--is not that the truth, prince?" He gasped as he spoke, and his strange agitation seemed to increase. "Well?" said Mrs. Epanchin angrily, surprised at his tone; "well, what more?" "I have heard many things of the kind about you ...they delighted me... I have learned to hold you in the highest esteem," continued Hippolyte. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 179 His words seemed tinged with a kind of sarcastic mockery, yet he was extremely agitated, casting suspicious glances around him, growing confused, and constantly losing the thread of his ideas. All this, together with his consumptive appearance, and the frenzied expression of his blazing eyes, naturally attracted the attention of everyone present. "I might have been surprised (though I admit I know nothing of the world), not only that you should have stayed on just now in the company of such people as myself and my friends, who are not of your class, but that you should let these ... young ladies listen to such a scandalous affair, though no doubt novel-reading has taught them all there is to know. I may be mistaken; I hardly know what I am saying; but surely no one but you would have stayed to please a whippersnapper (yes, a whippersnapper; I admit it) to spend the evening and take part in everything--only to be ashamed of it tomorrow. (I know I express myself badly.) I admire and appreciate it all extremely, though the expression on the face of his excellency, your husband, shows that he thinks it very improper. He-he!" He burst out laughing, and was seized with a fit of coughing which lasted for two minutes and prevented him from speaking. "He has lost his breath now!" said Lizabetha Prokofievna coldly, looking at him with more curiosity than pity: "Come, my dear boy, that is quite enough--let us make an end of this." Ivan Fedorovitch, now quite out of patience, interrupted suddenly. "Let me remark in my turn, sir," he said in tones of deep annoyance, "that my wife is here as the guest of Prince Lef Nicolaievitch, our friend and neighbour, and that in any case, young man, it is not for you to pass judgment on the conduct of Lizabetha Prokofievna, or to make remarks aloud in my presence concerning what feelings you think may be read in my face. Yes, my wife stayed here," continued the general, with increasing irritation, "more out of amazement than anything else. Everyone can understand that a collection of such strange young men would attract the attention of a person interested in contemporary life. I stayed myself, just as I sometimes stop to look on in the street when I see something that may be regarded as-as-as-" "As a curiosity," suggested Evgenie Pavlovitch, seeing his excellency involved in a comparison which he could not complete. "That is exactly the word I wanted," said the general with satisfaction--" a curiosity. However, the most astonishing and, if I may so express myself, the most painful, thing in this matter, is that you cannot even understand, young man, that Lizabetha Prokofievna, only stayed with you because you are ill, --if you really are dying--moved by the pity awakened by your plaintive appeal, and that her name, character, and social position place her above all risk of contamination. Lizabetha Prokofievna!" he continued, now crimson with rage, "if you are coming, we will say goodnight to the prince, and--" "Thank you for the lesson, general," said Hippolyte, with unexpected gravity, regarding him thoughtfully. "Two minutes more, if you please, dear Ivan Fedorovitch," said Lizabetha Prokofievna to her husband; "it seems to me that he is in a fever and delirious; you can see by his eyes what a state he is in; it is impossible to let him go back to Petersburg tonight. Can you put him up, Lef Nicolaievitch? I hope you are not bored, dear prince," she added suddenly to Prince S. "Alexandra, my dear, come here! Your hair is coming down." She arranged her daughter's hair, which was not in the least disordered, and gave her a kiss. This was all that she had called her for. "I thought you were capable of development," said Hippolyte, coming out of his fit of abstraction. "Yes, that is what I meant to say," he added, with the satisfaction of one who suddenly remembers something he had forgotten. "Here is Burdovsky, sincerely anxious to protect his mother; is not that so? And he himself is the cause of her disgrace. The prince is anxious to help Burdovsky and offers him friendship and a large sum of money, in the sincerity of his heart. And here they stand like two sworn enemies--ha, ha, ha! You all hate by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 180 Burdovsky because his behaviour with regard to his mother is shocking and repugnant to you; do you not? Is not that true? Is it not true? You all have a passion for beauty and distinction in outward forms; that is all you care for, isn't it? I have suspected for a long time that you cared for nothing else! Well, let me tell you that perhaps there is not one of you who loved your mother as Burdovsky loved his. As to you, prince, I know that you have sent money secretly to Burdovsky's mother through Gania. Well, I bet now," he continued with an hysterical laugh, "that Burdovsky will accuse you of indelicacy, and reproach you with a want of respect for his mother! Yes, that is quite certain! Ha, ha, ha!" He caught his breath, and began to cough once more. "Come, that is enough! That is all now; you have no more to say? Now go to bed; you are burning with fever," said Lizabetha Prokofievna impatiently. Her anxious eyes had never left the invalid. "Good heavens, he is going to begin again!" "You are laughing, I think? Why do you keep laughing at me?" said Hippolyte irritably to Evgenie Pavlovitch, who certainly was laughing. "I only want to know, Mr. Hippolyte--excuse me, I forget your surname." "Mr. Terentieff," said the prince. "Oh yes, Mr. Terentieff. Thank you prince. I heard it just now, but had forgotten it. I want to know, Mr. Terentieff, if what I have heard about you is true. It seems you are convinced that if you could speak to the people from a window for a quarter of an hour, you could make them all adopt your views and follow you?" "I may have said so," answered Hippolyte, as if trying to remember. "Yes, I certainly said so," he continued with sudden animation, fixing an unflinching glance on his questioner. "What of it?" "Nothing. I was only seeking further information, to put the finishing touch." Evgenie Pavlovitch was silent, but Hippolyte kept his eyes fixed upon him, waiting impatiently for more. "Well, have you finished?" said Lizabetha Prokofievna to Evgenie. "Make haste, sir; it is time he went to bed. Have you more to say?" She was very angry. "Yes, I have a little more," said Evgenie Pavlovitch, with a smile. "It seems to me that all you and your friends have said, Mr. Terentieff, and all you have just put forward with such undeniable talent, may be summed up in the triumph of right above all, independent of everything else, to the exclusion of everything else; perhaps even before having discovered what constitutes the right. I may be mistaken?" "You are certainly mistaken; I do not even understand you. What else?" Murmurs arose in the neighbourhood of Burdovsky and his companions; Lebedeff's nephew protested under his breath. "I have nearly finished," replied Evgenie Pavlovitch. "I will only remark that from these premisses one could conclude that might is right--I mean the right of the clenched fist, and of personal inclination. Indeed, the world has often come to that conclusion. Prudhon upheld that might is right. In the American War some of the most advanced Liberals took sides with the planters on the score that the blacks were an inferior race to the whites, and that might was the right of the white race." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 181 "Well?" "You mean, no doubt, that you do not deny that might is right?" "What then?" "You are at least logical. I would only point out that from the right of might, to the right of tigers and crocodiles, or even Daniloff and Gorsky, is but a step." "I know nothing about that; what else?" Hippolyte was scarcely listening. He kept saying well?" and "what else?" mechanically, without the least curiosity, and by mere force of habit. "Why, nothing else; that is all." "However, I bear you no grudge," said Hippolyte suddenly, and, hardly conscious of what he was doing, he held out his hand with a smile. The gesture took Evgenie Pavlovitch by surprise, but with the utmost gravity he touched the hand that was offered him in token of forgiveness. "I can but thank you," he said, in a tone too respectful to be sincere, "for your kindness in letting me speak, for I have often noticed that our Liberals never allow other people to have an opinion of their own, and immediately answer their opponents with abuse, if they do not have recourse to arguments of a still more unpleasant nature." "What you say is quite true," observed General Epanchin; then, clasping his hands behind his back, he returned to his place on the terrace steps, where he yawned with an air of boredom. "Come, sir, that will do; you weary me," said Lizabetha Prokofievna suddenly to Evgenie Pavlovitch. Hippolyte rose all at once, looking troubled and almost frightened. "It is time for me to go," he said, glancing round in perplexity. "I have detained you... I wanted to tell you everything... I thought you all ... for the last time ... it was a whim..." He evidently had sudden fits of returning animation, when he awoke from his semi-delirium; then, recovering full self- possession for a few moments, he would speak, in disconnected phrases which had perhaps haunted him for a long while on his bed of suffering, during weary, sleepless nights. "Well, good-bye," he said abruptly. "You think it is easy for me to say good-bye to you? Ha, ha!" Feeling that his question was somewhat gauche, he smiled angrily. Then as if vexed that he could not ever express what he really meant, he said irritably, in a loud voice: "Excellency, I have the honour of inviting you to my funeral; that is, if you will deign to honour it with your presence. I invite you all, gentlemen, as well as the general." He burst out laughing again, but it was the laughter of a madman. Lizabetha Prokofievna approached him anxiously and seized his arm. He stared at her for a moment, still laughing, but soon his face grew serious. "Do you know that I came here to see those trees?" pointing to the trees in the park. "It is not ridiculous, is it? Say that it is not ridiculous!" he demanded urgently of Lizabetha Prokofievna. Then he seemed to be plunged by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 182 in thought. A moment later he raised his head, and his eyes sought for someone. He was looking for Evgenie Pavlovitch, who was close by on his right as before, but he had forgotten this, and his eyes ranged over the assembled company. "Ah! you have not gone!" he said, when he caught sight of him at last. "You kept on laughing just now, because I thought of speaking to the people from the window for a quarter of an hour. But I am not eighteen, you know; lying on that bed, and looking out of that window, I have thought of all sorts of things for such a long time that ... a dead man has no age, you know. I was saying that to myself only last week, when I was awake in the night. Do you know what you fear most? You fear our sincerity more than anything, although you despise us! The idea crossed my mind that night... You thought I was making fun of you just now, Lizabetha Prokofievna? No, the idea of mockery was far from me; I only meant to praise you. Colia told me the prince called you a child--very well--but let me see, I had something else to say..." He covered his face with his hands and tried to collect his thoughts. "Ah, yes--you were going away just now, and I thought to myself: 'I shall never see these people again-never again! This is the last time I shall see the trees, too. I shall see nothing after this but the red brick wall of Meyer's house opposite my window. Tell them about it--try to tell them,' I thought. 'Here is a beautiful young girl--you are a dead man; make them understand that. Tell them that a dead man may say anything--and Mrs. Grundy will not be angry--ha-ha! You are not laughing?" He looked anxiously around. "But you know I get so many queer ideas, lying there in bed. I have grown convinced that nature is full of mockery--you called me an atheist just now, but you know this nature ... why are you laughing again? You are very cruel!" he added suddenly, regarding them all with mournful reproach. "I have not corrupted Colia," he concluded in a different and very serious tone, as if remembering something again. "Nobody here is laughing at you. Calm yourself" said Lizabetha Prokofievna, much moved. "You shall see a new doctor tomorrow; the other was mistaken; but sit down, do not stand like that! You are delirious--Oh, what shall we do with him she cried in anguish, as she made him sit down again in the arm-chair. A tear glistened on her cheek. At the sight of it Hippolyte seemed amazed. He lifted his hand timidly and, touched the tear with his finger, smiling like a child. "I ... you," he began joyfully. "You cannot tell how I ... he always spoke so enthusiastically of you, Colia here; I liked his enthusiasm. I was not corrupting him! But I must leave him, too-- I wanted to leave them all--there was not one of them--not one! I wanted to be a man of action--I had a right to be. Oh! what a lot of things I wanted! Now I want nothing; I renounce all my wants; I swore to myself that I would want nothing; let them seek the truth without me! Yes, nature is full of mockery! Why"--he continued with sudden warmth--"does she create the choicest beings only to mock at them? The only human being who is recognized as perfect, when nature showed him to mankind, was given the mission to say things which have caused the shedding of so much blood that it would have drowned mankind if it had all been shed at once! Oh! it is better for me to die! I should tell some dreadful lie too; nature would so contrive it! I have corrupted nobody. I wanted to live for the happiness of all men, to find and spread the truth. I used to look out of my window at the wall of Meyer's house, and say to myself that if I could speak for a quarter of an hour I would convince the whole world, and now for once in my life I have come into contact with ... you--if not with the others! And what is the result? Nothing! The sole result is that you despise me! Therefore I must be a fool, I am useless, it is time I disappeared! And I shall leave not even a memory! Not a sound, not a trace, not a single deed! I have not spread a single truth! ... Do not laugh at the fool! Forget him! Forget him forever! I beseech you, do not be so cruel as to remember! Do you know that if I were not consumptive, I would kill myself?" Though he seemed to wish to say much more, he became silent. He fell back into his chair, and, covering his face with his hands, began to sob like a little child. "Oh! what on earth are we to do with him?" cried Lizabetha Prokofievna. She hastened to him and pressed his head against her bosom, while he sobbed convulsively. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 183 "Come, come, come! There, you must not cry, that will do. You are a good child! God will forgive you, because you knew no better. Come now, be a man! You know presently you will be ashamed." Hippolyte raised his head with an effort, saying: "I have little brothers and sisters, over there, poor avid innocent. She will corrupt them! You are a saint! You are a child yourself--save them! Snatch them from that ... she is ... it is shameful! Oh! help them! God will repay you a hundredfold. For the love of God, for the love of Christ!" "Speak, Ivan Fedorovitch! What are we to do?" cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, irritably. "Please break your majestic silence! I tell you, if you cannot come to some decision, I will stay here all night myself. You have tyrannized over me enough, you autocrat!" She spoke angrily, and in great excitement, and expected an immediate reply. But in such a case, no matter how many are present, all prefer to keep silence: no one will take the initiative, but all reserve their comments till afterwards. There were some present--Varvara Ardalionovna, for instance--who would have willingly sat there till morning without saying a word. Varvara had sat apart all the evening without opening her lips, but she listened to everything with the closest attention; perhaps she had her reasons for so doing. "My dear," said the general, "it seems to me that a sick-nurse would be of more use here than an excitable person like you. Perhaps it would be as well to get some sober, reliable man for the night. In any case we must consult the prince, and leave the patient to rest at once. Tomorrow we can see what can be done for him." "It is nearly midnight; we are going. Will he come with us, or is he to stay here?" Doktorenko asked crossly of the prince. "You can stay with him if you like," said Muishkin. "There is plenty of room here." Suddenly, to the astonishment of all, Keller went quickly up to the general. "Excellency," he said, impulsively, "if you want a reliable man for the night, I am ready to sacrifice myself for my friend--such a soul as he has! I have long thought him a great man, excellency! My article showed my lack of education, but when he criticizes he scatters pearls!" Ivan Fedorovitch turned from the boxer with a gesture of despair. "I shall be delighted if he will stay; it would certainly be difficult for him to get back to Petersburg," said the prince, in answer to the eager questions of Lizabetha Prokofievna. "But you are half asleep, are you not? If you don't want him, I will take him back to my house! Why, good gracious! He can hardly stand up himself! What is it? Are you ill?" Not finding the prince on his death-bed, Lizabetha Prokofievna had been misled by his appearance to think him much better than he was. But his recent illness, the painful memories attached to it, the fatigue of this evening, the incident with "Pavlicheff's son," and now this scene with Hippolyte, had all so worked on his oversensitive nature that he was now almost in a fever. Moreover, anew trouble, almost a fear, showed itself in his eyes; he watched Hippolyte anxiously as if expecting something further. Suddenly Hippolyte arose. His face, shockingly pale, was that of a man overwhelmed with shame and despair. This was shown chiefly in the look of fear and hatred which he cast upon the assembled company, and in the by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 184 wild smile upon his trembling lips. Then he cast down his eyes, and with the same smile, staggered towards Burdovsky and Doktorenko, who stood at the entrance to the verandah. He had decided to go with them. "There! that is what I feared!" cried the prince. "It was inevitable!" Hippolyte turned upon him, a prey to maniacal rage, which set all the muscles of his face quivering. "Ah! that is what you feared! It was inevitable, you say! Well, let me tell you that if I hate anyone here--I hate you all," he cried, in a hoarse, strained voice-" but you, you, with your jesuitical soul, your soul of sickly sweetness, idiot, beneficent millionaire--I hate you worse than anything or anyone on earth! I saw through you and hated you long ago; from the day I first heard of you. I hated you with my whole heart. You have contrived all this! You have driven me into this state! You have made a dying man disgrace himself. You, you, you are the cause of my abject cowardice! I would kill you if I remained alive! I do not want your benefits; I will accept none from anyone; do you hear? Not from any one! I want nothing! I was delirious, do not dare to triumph! I curse every one of you, once for all!" Breath failed him here, and he was obliged to stop. "He is ashamed of his tears!" whispered Lebedeff to Lizabetha Prokofievna. "It was inevitable. Ah! what a wonderful man the prince is! He read his very soul." But Mrs. Epanchin would not deign to look at Lebedeff. Drawn up haughtily, with her head held high, she gazed at the "riff-raff," with scornful curiosity. When Hippolyte had finished, Ivan Fedorovitch shrugged his shoulders, and his wife looked him angrily up and down, as if to demand the meaning of his movement. Then she turned to the prince. "Thanks, prince, many thanks, eccentric friend of the family, for the pleasant evening you have provided for us. I am sure you are quite pleased that you have managed to mix us up with your extraordinary affairs. It is quite enough, dear family friend; thank you for giving us an opportunity of getting to know you so well." She arranged her cloak with hands that trembled with anger as she waited for the "riff-raff "to go. The cab which Lebedeff's son had gone to fetch a quarter of an hour ago, by Doktorenko's order, arrived at that moment. The general thought fit to put in a word after his wife. "Really, prince, I hardly expected after--after all our friendly intercourse-- and you see, Lizabetha Prokofievna--" "Papa, how can you?" cried Adelaida, walking quickly up to the prince and holding out her hand. He smiled absently at her; then suddenly he felt a burning sensation in his ear as an angry voice whispered: "If you do not turn those dreadful people out of the house this very instant, I shall hate you all my life--all my life!" It was Aglaya. She seemed almost in a frenzy, but she turned away before the prince could look at her. However, there was no one left to turn out of the house, for they had managed meanwhile to get Hippolyte into the cab, and it had driven off. "Well, how much longer is this going to last, Ivan Fedorovitch? What do you think? Shall I soon be delivered from these odious youths?" "My dear, I am quite ready; naturally ... the prince." Ivan Fedorovitch held out his hand to Muishkin, but ran after his wife, who was leaving with every sign of by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 185 violent indignation, before he had time to shake it. Adelaida, her fiance, and Alexandra, said good-bye to their host with sincere friendliness. Evgenie Pavlovitch did the same, and he alone seemed in good spirits. "What I expected has happened! But I am sorry, you poor fellow, that you should have had to suffer for it," he murmured, with a most charming smile. Aglaya left without saying good-bye. But the evening was not to end without a last adventure. An unexpected meeting was yet in store for Lizabetha Prokofievna. She had scarcely descended the terrace steps leading to the high road that skirts the park at Pavlofsk, when suddenly there dashed by a smart open carriage, drawn by a pair of beautiful white horses. Having passed some ten yards beyond the house, the carriage suddenly drew up, and one of the two ladies seated in it turned sharp round as though she had just caught sight of some acquaintance whom she particularly wished to see. "Evgenie Pavlovitch! Is that you?" cried a clear, sweet voice, which caused the prince, and perhaps someone else, to tremble. "Well, I AM glad I've found you at last! I've sent to town for you twice today myself! My messengers have been searching for you everywhere!" Evgenie Pavlovitch stood on the steps like one struck by lightning. Mrs. Epanchin stood still too, but not with the petrified expression of Evgenie. She gazed haughtily at the audacious person who had addressed her companion, and then turned a look of astonishment upon Evgenie himself. "There's news!" continued the clear voice. "You need not be anxious about Kupferof's IOU's--Rogojin has bought them up. I persuaded him to!--I dare say we shall settle Biscup too, so it's all right, you see! Au revoir, tomorrow! And don't worry!" The carriage moved on, and disappeared. "The woman's mad!" cried Evgenie, at last, crimson with anger, and looking confusedly around. "I don't know what she's talking about! What IOU's? Who is she?" Mrs. Epanchin continued to watch his face for a couple of seconds; then she marched briskly and haughtily away towards her own house, the rest following her. A minute afterwards, Evgenie Pavlovitch reappeared on the terrace, in great agitation. "Prince," he said, "tell me the truth; do you know what all this means?" "I know nothing whatever about it!" replied the latter, who was, himself, in a state of nervous excitement. "No?" "No? "Well, nor do I!" said Evgenie Pavlovitch, laughing suddenly. "I haven't the slightest knowledge of any such IOU's as she mentioned, I swear I haven't--What's the matter, are you fainting?" "Oh, no-no-I'm all right, I assure you!" XI. THE anger of the Epanchin family was unappeased for three days. As usual the prince reproached himself, and had expected punishment, but he was inwardly convinced that Lizabetha Prokofievna could not be seriously angry with him, and that she probably was more angry with herself. He was painfully surprised, therefore, when three days passed with no word from her. Other things also troubled and perplexed him, and one of these grew more important in his eyes as the days went by. He had begun to blame himself for two by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 186 opposite tendencies--on the one hand to extreme, almost "senseless," confidence in his fellows, on the other to a "vile, gloomy suspiciousness." By the end of the third day the incident of the eccentric lady and Evgenie Pavlovitch had attained enormous and mysterious proportions in his mind. He sorrowfully asked himself whether he had been the cause of this new "monstrosity," or was it ... but he refrained from saying who else might be in fault. As for the letters N.P.B., he looked on that as a harmless joke, a mere childish piece of mischief--so childish that he felt it would be shameful, almost dishonourable, to attach any importance to it. The day after these scandalous events, however, the prince had the honour of receiving a visit from Adelaida and her fiance, Prince S. They came, ostensibly, to inquire after his health. They had wandered out for a walk, and called in "by accident," and talked for almost the whole of the time they were with him about a certain most lovely tree in the park, which Adelaida had set her heart upon for a picture. This, and a little amiable conversation on Prince S.'s part, occupied the time, and not a word was said about last evening's episodes. At length Adelaida burst out laughing, apologized, and explained that they had come incognito; from which, and from the circumstance that they said nothing about the prince's either walking back with them or coming to see them later on, the latter inferred that he was in Mrs. Epanchin's black books. Adelaida mentioned a watercolour that she would much like to show him, and explained that she would either send it by Colia, or bring it herself the next day-- which to the prince seemed very suggestive. At length, however, just as the visitors were on the point of departing, Prince S. seemed suddenly to recollect himself. "Oh yes, by-the-by," he said, "do you happen to know, my dear Lef Nicolaievitch, who that lady was who called out to Evgenie Pavlovitch last night, from the carriage?" "It was Nastasia Philipovna," said the prince; "didn't you know that? I cannot tell you who her companion was." "But what on earth did she mean? I assure you it is a real riddle to me--to me, and to others, too!" Prince S. seemed to be under the influence of sincere astonishment. "She spoke of some bills of Evgenie Pavlovitch's," said the prince, simply, "which Rogojin had bought up from someone; and implied that Rogojin would not press him." "Oh, I heard that much, my dear fellow! But the thing is so impossibly absurd! A man of property like Evgenie to give IOU's to a money-lender, and to be worried about them! It is ridiculous. Besides, he cannot possibly be on such intimate terms with Nastasia Philipovna as she gave us to understand; that's the principal part of the mystery! He has given me his word that he knows nothing whatever about the matter, and of course I believe him. Well, the question is, my dear prince, do you know anything about it? Has any sort of suspicion of the meaning of it come across you?" "No, I know nothing whatever about it. I assure you I had nothing at all to do with it." "Oh, prince, how strange you have become! I assure you, I hardly know you for your old self. How can you suppose that I ever suggested you could have had a finger in such a business? But you are not quite yourself today, I can see." He embraced the prince, and kissed him. "What do you mean, though," asked Muishkin, "'by such a business'? I don't see any particular 'business' about it at all!" "Oh, undoubtedly, this person wished somehow, and for some reason, to do Evgenie Pavlovitch a bad turn, by attributing to him--before witnesses--qualities which he neither has nor can have," replied Prince S. drily enough. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 187 Muiskhin looked disturbed, but continued to gaze intently and questioningly into Prince S.'s face. The latter, however, remained silent. "Then it was not simply a matter of bills?" Muishkin said at last, with some impatience. "It was not as she said?" "But I ask you, my dear sir, how can there be anything in common between Evgenie Pavlovitch, and--her, and again Rogojin? I tell you he is a man of immense wealth--as I know for a fact; and he has further expectations from his uncle. Simply Nastasia Philipovna--" Prince S. paused, as though unwilling to continue talking about Nastasia Philipovna. "Then at all events he knows her!" remarked the prince, after a moment's silence. "Oh, that may be. He may have known her some time ago--two or three years, at least. He used to know Totski. But it is impossible that there should be any intimacy between them. She has not even been in the place--many people don't even know that she has returned from Moscow! I have only observed her carriage about for the last three days or so." "It's a lovely carriage," said Adelaida. "Yes, it was a beautiful turn-out, certainly!" The visitors left the house, however, on no less friendly terms than before. But the visit was of the greatest importance to the prince, from his own point of view. Admitting that he had his suspicions, from the moment of the occurrence of last night, perhaps even before, that Nastasia had some mysterious end in view, yet this visit confirmed his suspicions and justified his fears. It was all clear to him; Prince S. was wrong, perhaps, in his view of the matter, but he was somewhere near the truth, and was right in so far as that he understood there to be an intrigue of some sort going on. Perhaps Prince S. saw it all more clearly than he had allowed his hearers to understand. At all events, nothing could be plainer than that he and Adelaida had come for the express purpose of obtaining explanations, and that they suspected him of being concerned in the affair. And if all this were so, then SHE must have some terrible object in view! What was it? There was no stopping HER, as Muishkin knew from experience, in the performance of anything she had set her mind on! "Oh, she is mad, mad!" thought the poor prince. But there were many other puzzling occurrences that day, which required immediate explanation, and the prince felt very sad. A visit from Vera Lebedeff distracted him a little. She brought the infant Lubotchka with her as usual, and talked cheerfully for some time. Then came her younger sister, and later the brother, who attended a school close by. He informed Muishkin that his father had lately found a new interpretation of the star called "wormwood," which fell upon the water-springs, as described in the Apocalypse. He had decided that it meant the network of railroads spread over the face of Europe at the present time. The prince refused to believe that Lebedeff could have given such an interpretation, and they decided to ask him about it at the earliest opportunity. Vera related how Keller had taken up his abode with them on the previous evening. She thought he would remain for some time, as he was greatly pleased with the society of General Ivolgin and of the whole family. But he declared that he had only come to them in order to complete his education! The prince always enjoyed the company of Lebedeff's children, and today it was especially welcome, for Colia did not appear all day. Early that morning he had started for Petersburg. Lebedeff also was away on business. But Gavrila Ardalionovitch had promised to visit Muishkin, who eagerly awaited his coming. About seven in the evening, soon after dinner, he arrived. At the first glance it struck the prince that he, at any rate, must know all the details of last night's affair. Indeed, it would have been impossible for him to remain in ignorance considering the intimate relationship between him, Varvara Ardalionovna, and Ptitsin. But although by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 188 he and the prince were intimate, in a sense, and although the latter had placed the Burdovsky affair in his hands-and this was not the only mark of confidence he had received--it seemed curious how many matters there were that were tacitly avoided in their conversations. Muishkin thought that Gania at times appeared to desire more cordiality and frankness. It was apparent now, when he entered, that he, was convinced that the moment for breaking the ice between them had come at last. But all the same Gania was in haste, for his sister was waiting at Lebedeff's to consult him on an urgent matter of business. If he had anticipated impatient questions, or impulsive confidences, he was soon undeceived. The prince was thoughtful, reserved, even a little absent-minded, and asked none of the questions--one in particular--that Gania had expected. So he imitated the prince's demeanour, and talked fast and brilliantly upon all subjects but the one on which their thoughts were engaged. Among other things Gania told his host that Nastasia Philipovna had been only four days in Pavlofsk, and that everyone was talking about her already. She was staying with Daria Alexeyevna, in an ugly little house in Mattrossky Street, but drove about in the smartest carriage in the place. A crowd of followers had pursued her from the first, young and old. Some escorted her on horse-back when she took the air in her carriage. She was as capricious as ever in the choice of her acquaintances, and admitted few into her narrow circle. Yet she already had a numerous following and many champions on whom she could depend in time of need. One gentleman on his holiday had broken off his engagement on her account, and an old general had quarrelled with his only son for the same reason. She was accompanied sometimes in her carriage by a girl of sixteen, a distant relative of her hostess. This young lady sang very well; in fact, her music had given a kind of notoriety to their little house. Nastasia, however, was behaving with great discretion on the whole. She dressed quietly, though with such taste as to drive all the ladies in Pavlofsk mad with envy, of that, as well as of her beauty and her carriage and horses. "As for yesterday's episode," continued Gania, "of course it was pre-arranged." Here he paused, as though expecting to be asked how he knew that. But the prince did not inquire. Concerning Evgenie Pavlovitch, Gania stated, without being asked, that he believed the former had not known Nastasia Philipovna in past years, but that he had probably been introduced to her by somebody in the park during these four days. As to the question of the IOU's she had spoken of, there might easily be something in that; for though Evgenie was undoubtedly a man of wealth, yet certain of his affairs were equally undoubtedly in disorder. Arrived at this interesting point, Gania suddenly broke off, and said no more about Nastasia's prank of the previous evening. At last Varvara Ardalionovna came in search of her brother, and remained for a few minutes. Without Muishkin's asking her, she informed him that Evgenie Pavlovitch was spending the day in Petersburg, and perhaps would remain there over tomorrow; and that her husband had also gone to town, probably in connection with Evgenie Pavlovitch's affairs. "Lizabetha Prokofievna is in a really fiendish temper today," she added, as she went out, "but the most curious thing is that Aglaya has quarrelled with her whole family; not only with her father and mother, but with her sisters also. It is not a good sign." She said all this quite casually, though it was extremely important in the eyes of the prince, and went off with her brother. Regarding the episode of "Pavlicheff's son," Gania had been absolutely silent, partly from a kind of false modesty, partly, perhaps, to "spare the prince's feelings." The latter, however, thanked him again for the trouble he had taken in the affair. Muishkin was glad enough to be left alone. He went out of the garden, crossed the road, and entered the park. He wished to reflect, and to make up his mind as to a certain "step." This step was one of those things, however, which are not thought out, as a rule, but decided for or against hastily, and without much reflection. The fact is, he felt a longing to leave all this and go away--go anywhere, if only it were far enough, and at once, without bidding farewell to anyone. He felt a presentiment that if he remained but a few days more in this place, and among these people, he would be fixed there irrevocably and permanently. However, in a very by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 189 few minutes he decided that to run away was impossible; that it would be cowardly; that great problems lay before him, and that he had no right to leave them unsolved, or at least to refuse to give all his energy and strength to the attempt to solve them. Having come to this determination, he turned and went home, his walk having lasted less than a quarter of an hour. At that moment he was thoroughly unhappy. Lebedeff had not returned, so towards evening Keller managed to penetrate into the prince's apartments. He was not drunk, but in a confidential and talkative mood. He announced that he had come to tell the story of his life to Muishkin, and had only remained at Pavlofsk for that purpose. There was no means of turning him out; nothing short of an earthquake would have removed him. In the manner of one with long hours before him, he began his history; but after a few incoherent words he jumped to the conclusion, which was that "having ceased to believe in God Almighty, he had lost every vestige of morality, and had gone so far as to commit a theft." "Could you imagine such a thing?" said he. "Listen to me, Keller," returned the prince. "If I were in your place, I should not acknowledge that unless it were absolutely necessary for some reason. But perhaps you are making yourself out to be worse than you are, purposely?" "I should tell it to no one but yourself, prince, and I only name it now as a help to my soul's evolution. When I die, that secret will die with me! But, excellency, if you knew, if you only had the least idea, how difficult it is to get money nowadays! Where to find it is the question. Ask for a loan, the answer is always the same: 'Give us gold, jewels, or diamonds, and it will be quite easy.' Exactly what one has not got! Can you picture that to yourself? I got angry at last, and said, 'I suppose you would accept emeralds?' 'Certainly, we accept emeralds with pleasure. Yes!' 'Well, that's all right,' said I. 'Go to the devil, you den of thieves!' And with that I seized my hat, and walked out." "Had you any emeralds?" asked the prince. "What? I have emeralds? Oh, prince! with what simplicity, with what almost pastoral simplicity, you look upon life!" Could not something be made of this man under good influences? asked the prince of himself, for he began to feel a kind of pity for his visitor. He thought little of the value of his own personal influence, not from a sense of humility, but from his peculiar way of looking at things in general. Imperceptibly the conversation grew more animated and more interesting, so that neither of the two felt anxious to bring it to a close. Keller confessed, with apparent sincerity, to having been guilty of many acts of such a nature that it astonished the prince that he could mention them, even to him. At every fresh avowal he professed the deepest repentance, and described himself as being "bathed in tears"; but this did not prevent him from putting on a boastful air at times, and some of his stories were so absurdly comical that both he and the prince laughed like madmen. "One point in your favour is that you seem to have a child-like mind, and extreme truthfulness," said the prince at last. "Do you know that that atones for much?" "I am assuredly noble-minded, and chivalrous to a degree!" said Keller, much softened. "But, do you know, this nobility of mind exists in a dream, if one may put it so? It never appears in practice or deed. Now, why is that? I can never understand." "Do not despair. I think we may say without fear of deceiving ourselves, that you have now given a fairly exact account of your life. I, at least, think it would be impossible to add much to what you have just told me." "Impossible?" cried Keller, almost pityingly. "Oh prince, how little you really seem to understand human nature!" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 190 "Is there really much more to be added?" asked the prince, with mild surprise. "Well, what is it you really want of me? Speak out; tell me why you came to make your confession to me?" "What did I want? Well, to begin with, it is good to meet a man like you. It is a pleasure to talk over my faults with you. I know you for one of the best of men ... and then ... then ..." He hesitated, and appeared so much embarrassed that the prince helped him out. "Then you wanted me to lend you money?" The words were spoken in a grave tone, and even somewhat shyly. Keller started, gave an astonished look at the speaker, and thumped the table with his fist. "Well, prince, that's enough to knock me down! It astounds me! Here you are, as simple and innocent as a knight of the golden age, and yet ... yet ... you read a man's soul like a psychologist! Now, do explain it to me, prince, because I ... I really do not understand! ... Of course, my aim was to borrow money all along, and you ... you asked the question as if there was nothing blameable in it--as if you thought it quite natural." "Yes ... from you it is quite natural." "And you are not offended?" "Why should I be offended?" "Well, just listen, prince. I remained here last evening, partly because I have a great admiration for the French archbishop Bourdaloue. I enjoyed a discussion over him till three o'clock in the morning, with Lebedeff; and then ... then--I swear by all I hold sacred that I am telling you the truth--then I wished to develop my soul in this frank and heartfelt confession to you. This was my thought as I was sobbing myself to sleep at dawn. Just as I was losing consciousness, tears in my soul, tears on my face (I remember how I lay there sobbing), an idea from hell struck me. 'Why not, after confessing, borrow money from him?' You see, this confession was a kind of masterstroke; I intended to use it as a means to your good grace and favour--and then--then I meant to walk off with a hundred and fifty roubles. Now, do you not call that base?" "It is hardly an exact statement of the case," said the prince in reply. "You have confused your motives and ideas, as I need scarcely say too often happens to myself. I can assure you, Keller, I reproach myself bitterly for it sometimes. When you were talking just now I seemed to be listening to something about myself. At times I have imagined that all men were the same," he continued earnestly, for he appeared to be much interested in the conversation, "and that consoled me in a certain degree, for a DOUBLE motive is a thing most difficult to fight against. I have tried, and I know. God knows whence they arise, these ideas that you speak of as base. I fear these double motives more than ever just now, but I am not your judge, and in my opinion it is going too far to give the name of baseness to it--what do you think? You were going to employ your tears as a ruse in order to borrow money, but you also say--in fact, you have sworn to the fact-- that independently of this your confession was made with an honourable motive. As for the money, you want it for drink, do you not? After your confession, that is weakness, of course; but, after all, how can anyone give up a bad habit at a moment's notice? It is impossible. What can we do? It is best, I think, to leave the matter to your own conscience. How does it seem to you?" As he concluded the prince looked curiously at Keller; evidently this problem of double motives had often been considered by him before. "Well, how anybody can call you an idiot after that, is more than I can understand!" cried the boxer. The prince reddened slightly. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 191 "Bourdaloue, the archbishop, would not have spared a man like me," Keller continued, "but you, you have judged me with humanity. To show how grateful I am, and as a punishment, I will not accept a hundred and fifty roubles. Give me twenty-five--that will be enough; it is all I really need, for a fortnight at least. I will not ask you for more for a fortnight. I should like to have given Agatha a present, but she does not really deserve it. Oh, my dear prince, God bless you!" At this moment Lebedeff appeared, having just arrived from Petersburg. He frowned when he saw the twenty-five rouble note in Keller's hand, but the latter, having got the money, went away at once. Lebedeff began to abuse him. "You are unjust; I found him sincerely repentant," observed the prince, after listening for a time. "What is the good of repentance like that? It is the same exactly as mine yesterday, when I said, 'I am base, I am base,'--words, and nothing more!" "Then they were only words on your part? I thought, on the contrary..." "Well, I don't mind telling you the truth--you only! Because you see through a man somehow. Words and actions, truth and falsehood, are all jumbled up together in me, and yet I am perfectly sincere. I feel the deepest repentance, believe it or not, as you choose; but words and lies come out in the infernal craving to get the better of other people. It is always there--the notion of cheating people, and of using my repentant tears to my own advantage! I assure you this is the truth, prince! I would not tell any other man for the world! He would laugh and jeer at me--but you, you judge a man humanely." "Why, Keller said the same thing to me nearly word for word a few minutes ago!" cried Muishkin. "And you both seem inclined to boast about it! You astonish me, but I think he is more sincere than you, for you make a regular trade of it. Oh, don't put on that pathetic expression, and don't put your hand on your heart! Have you anything to say to me? You have not come for nothing..." Lebedeff grinned and wriggled. "I have been waiting all day for you, because I want to ask you a question; and, for once in your life, please tell me the truth at once. Had you anything to do with that affair of the carriage yesterday?" Lebedeff began to grin again, rubbed his hands, sneezed, but spoke not a word in reply. "I see you had something to do with it." "Indirectly, quite indirectly! I am speaking the truth--I am indeed! I merely told a certain person that I had people in my house, and that such and such personages might be found among them." "I am aware that you sent your son to that house--he told me so himself just now, but what is this intrigue?" said the prince, impatiently. "It is not my intrigue!" cried Lebedeff, waving his hand. "It was engineered by other people, and is, properly speaking, rather a fantasy than an intrigue!" "But what is it all about? Tell me, for Heaven's sake! Cannot you understand how nearly it touches me? Why are they blackening Evgenie Pavlovitch's reputation?" Lebedeff grimaced and wriggled again. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 192 "Prince!" said he. "Excellency! You won't let me tell you the whole truth; I have tried to explain; more than once I have begun, but you have not allowed me to go on..." The prince gave no answer, and sat deep in thought. Evidently he was struggling to decide. "Very well! Tell me the truth," he said, dejectedly. "Aglaya Ivanovna ..." began Lebedeff, promptly. "Be silent! At once!" interrupted the prince, red with indignation, and perhaps with shame, too. "It is impossible and absurd! All that has been invented by you, or fools like you! Let me never hear you say a word again on that subject!" Late in the evening Colia came in with a whole budget of Petersburg and Pavlofsk news. He did not dwell much on the Petersburg part of it, which consisted chiefly of intelligence about his friend Hippolyte, but passed quickly to the Pavlofsk tidings. He had gone straight to the Epanchins' from the station. "There's the deuce and all going on there!" he said. "First of all about the row last night, and I think there must be something new as well, though I didn't like to ask. Not a word about YOU, prince, the whole time!" The most interesting fact was that Aglaya had been quarrelling with her people about Gania. Colia did not know any details, except that it had been a terrible quarrel! Also Evgenie Pavlovitch had called, and met with an excellent reception all round. And another curious thing: Mrs. Epanchin was so angry that she called Varia to her--Varia was talking to the girls--and turned her out of the house "once for all "she said. "I heard it from Varia herself--Mrs. Epanchin was quite polite, but firm; and when Varia said good-bye to the girls, she told them nothing about it, and they didn't know they were saying goodbye for the last time. I'm sorry for Varia, and for Gania too; he isn't half a bad fellow, in spite of his faults, and I shall never forgive myself for not liking him before! I don't know whether I ought to continue to go to the Epanchins' now," concluded Colia--" I like to be quite independent of others, and of other people's quarrels if I can; but I must think over it." "I don't think you need break your heart over Gania," said the prince; "for if what you say is true, he must be considered dangerous in the Epanchin household, and if so, certain hopes of his must have been encouraged." "What? What hopes?" cried Colia; "you surely don't mean Aglaya?-- oh, no!--" "You're a dreadful sceptic, prince," he continued, after a moment's silence. "I have observed of late that you have grown sceptical about everything. You don't seem to believe in people as you did, and are always attributing motives and so on--am I using the word 'sceptic' in its proper sense?" "I believe so; but I'm not sure." "Well, I'll change it, right or wrong; I'll say that you are not sceptical, but JEALOUS. There! you are deadly jealous of Gania, over a certain proud damsel! Come!" Colia jumped up, with these words, and burst out laughing. He laughed as he had perhaps never laughed before, and still more when he saw the prince flushing up to his temples. He was delighted that the prince should be jealous about Aglaya. However, he stopped immediately on seeing that the other was really hurt, and the conversation continued, very earnestly, for an hour or more. Next day the prince had to go to town, on business. Returning in the afternoon, he happened upon General Epanchin at the station. The latter seized his hand, glancing around nervously, as if he were afraid of being caught in wrong-doing, and dragged him into a first-class compartment. He was burning to speak about something of importance. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 193 "In the first place, my dear prince, don't be angry with me. I would have come to see you yesterday, but I didn't know how Lizabetha Prokofievna would take it. My dear fellow, my house is simply a hell just now, a sort of sphinx has taken up its abode there. We live in an atmosphere of riddles; I can't make head or tail of anything. As for you, I feel sure you are the least to blame of any of us, though you certainly have been the cause of a good deal of trouble. You see, it's all very pleasant to be a philanthropist; but it can be carried too far. Of course I admire kind-heartedness, and I esteem my wife, but--" The general wandered on in this disconnected way for a long time; it was clear that he was much disturbed by some circumstance which he could make nothing of. "It is plain to me, that YOU are not in it at all," he continued, at last, a little less vaguely, "but perhaps you had better not come to our house for a little while. I ask you in the friendliest manner, mind; just till the wind changes again. As for Evgenie Pavlovitch," he continued with some excitement, "the whole thing is a calumny, a dirty calumny. It is simply a plot, an intrigue, to upset our plans and to stir up a quarrel. You see, prince, I'll tell you privately, Evgenie and ourselves have not said a word yet, we have no formal understanding, we are in no way bound on either side, but the word may be said very soon, don't you see, VERY soon, and all this is most injurious, and is meant to be so. Why? I'm sure I can't tell you. She's an extraordinary woman, you see, an eccentric woman; I tell you I am so frightened of that woman that I can't sleep. What a carriage that was, and where did it come from, eh? I declare, I was base enough to suspect Evgenie at first; but it seems certain that that cannot be the case, and if so, why is she interfering here? That's the riddle, what does she want? Is it to keep Evgenie to herself? But, my dear fellow, I swear to you, I swear he doesn't even KNOW her, and as for those bills, why, the whole thing is an invention! And the familiarity of the woman! It's quite clear we must treat the impudent creature's attempt with disdain, and redouble our courtesy towards Evgenie. I told my wife so. "Now I'll tell you my secret conviction. I'm certain that she's doing this to revenge herself on me, on account of the past, though I assure you that all the time I was blameless. I blush at the very idea. And now she turns up again like this, when I thought she had finally disappeared! Where's Rogojin all this time? I thought she was Mrs. Rogojin, long ago." The old man was in a state of great mental perturbation. The whole of the journey, which occupied nearly an hour, he continued in this strain, putting questions and answering them himself, shrugging his shoulders, pressing the prince's hand, and assuring the latter that, at all events, he had no suspicion whatever of HIM. This last assurance was satisfactory, at all events. The general finished by informing him that Evgenie's uncle was head of one of the civil service departments, and rich, very rich, and a gourmand. "And, well, Heaven preserve him, of course--but Evgenie gets his money, don't you see? But, for all this, I'm uncomfortable, I don't know why. There's something in the air, I feel there's something nasty in the air, like a bat, and I'm by no means comfortable." And it was not until the third day that the formal reconciliation between the prince and the Epanchins took place, as said before. XII. IT was seven in the evening, and the prince was just preparing to go out for a walk in the park, when suddenly Mrs. Epanchin appeared on the terrace. "In the first place, don't dare to suppose," she began, "that I am going to apologize. Nonsense! You were entirely to blame." The prince remained silent. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 194 "Were you to blame, or not?" "No, certainly not, no more than yourself, though at first I thought I was." "Oh, very well, let's sit down, at all events, for I don't intend to stand up all day. And remember, if you say, one word about 'mischievous urchins,' I shall go away and break with you altogether. Now then, did you, or did you not, send a letter to Aglaya, a couple of months or so ago, about Easter-tide?" "Yes!" "What for? What was your object? Show me the letter." Mrs. Epanchin's eyes flashed; she was almost trembling with impatience. "I have not got the letter," said the prince, timidly, extremely surprised at the turn the conversation had taken. "If anyone has it, if it still exists, Aglaya Ivanovna must have it." "No finessing, please. What did you write about?" "I am not finessing, and I am not in the least afraid of telling you; but I don't see the slightest reason why I should not have written." "Be quiet, you can talk afterwards! What was the letter about? Why are you blushing?" The prince was silent. At last he spoke. "I don't understand your thoughts, Lizabetha Prokofievna; but I can see that the fact of my having written is for some reason repugnant to you. You must admit that I have a perfect right to refuse to answer your questions; but, in order to show you that I am neither ashamed of the letter, nor sorry that I wrote it, and that I am not in the least inclined to blush about it "(here the prince's blushes redoubled), "I will repeat the substance of my letter, for I think I know it almost by heart." So saying, the prince repeated the letter almost word for word, as he had written it. "My goodness, what utter twaddle, and what may all this nonsense have signified, pray? If it had any meaning at all!" said Mrs. Epanchin, cuttingly, after having listened with great attention. "I really don't absolutely know myself; I know my feeling was very sincere. I had moments at that time full of life and hope." "What sort of hope?" "It is difficult to explain, but certainly not the hopes you have in your mind. Hopes--well, in a word, hopes for the future, and a feeling of joy that THERE, at all events, I was not entirely a stranger and a foreigner. I felt an ecstasy in being in my native land once more; and one sunny morning I took up a pen and wrote her that letter, but why to HER, I don't quite know. Sometimes one longs to have a friend near, and I evidently felt the need of one then," added the prince, and paused. "Are you in love with her?" "N-no! I wrote to her as to a sister; I signed myself her brother." "Oh yes, of course, on purpose! I quite understand." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 195 "It is very painful to me to answer these questions, Lizabetha Prokofievna." "I dare say it is; but that's no affair of mine. Now then, assure me truly as before Heaven, are you lying to me or not?" "No, I am not lying." "Are you telling the truth when you say you are not in love?" "I believe it is the absolute truth." "'I believe,' indeed! Did that mischievous urchin give it to her?" "I asked Nicolai Ardalionovitch . . ." "The urchin! the urchin!" interrupted Lizabetha Prokofievna in an angry voice. "I do not want to know if it were Nicolai Ardalionovitch! The urchin!" "Nicolai Ardalionovitch . . ." "The urchin, I tell you!" "No, it was not the urchin: it was Nicolai Ardalionovitch," said the prince very firmly, but without raising his voice. "Well, all right! All right, my dear! I shall put that down to your account." She was silent a moment to get breath, and to recover her composure. "Well!--and what's the meaning of the 'poor knight,' eh?" "I don't know in the least; I wasn't present when the joke was made. It IS a joke. I suppose, and that's all." "Well, that's a comfort, at all events. You don't suppose she could take any interest in you, do you? Why, she called you an 'idiot' herself." "I think you might have spared me that," murmured the prince reproachfully, almost in a whisper. "Don't be angry; she is a wilful, mad, spoilt girl. If she likes a person she will pitch into him, and chaff him. I used to be just such another. But for all that you needn't flatter yourself, my boy; she is not for you. I don't believe it, and it is not to be. I tell you so at once, so that you may take proper precautions. Now, I want to hear you swear that you are not married to that woman?" "Lizabetha Prokofievna, what are you thinking of?" cried the prince, almost leaping to his feet in amazement. "Why? You very nearly were, anyhow." "Yes--I nearly was," whispered the prince, hanging his head. "Well then, have you come here for HER? Are you in love with HER? With THAT creature?" "I did not come to marry at all," replied the prince. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 196 "Is there anything you hold sacred?" "There is." "Then swear by it that you did not come here to marry HER!" "I'll swear it by whatever you please." "I believe you. You may kiss me; I breathe freely at last. But you must know, my dear friend, Aglaya does not love you, and she shall never be your wife while I am out of my grave. So be warned in time. Do you hear me?" "Yes, I hear." The prince flushed up so much that he could not look her in the face. "I have waited for you with the greatest impatience (not that you were worth it). Every night I have drenched my pillow with tears, not for you, my friend, not for you, don't flatter yourself! I have my own grief, always the same, always the same. But I'll tell you why I have been awaiting you so impatiently, because I believe that Providence itself sent you to be a friend and a brother to me. I haven't a friend in the world except Princess Bielokonski, and she is growing as stupid as a sheep from old age. Now then, tell me, yes or no? Do you know why she called out from her carriage the other night?" "I give you my word of honour that I had nothing to do with the matter and know nothing about it." "Very well, I believe you. I have my own ideas about it. Up to yesterday morning I thought it was really Evgenie Pavlovitch who was to blame; now I cannot help agreeing with the others. But why he was made such a fool of I cannot understand. However, he is not going to marry Aglaya, I can tell you that. He may be a very excellent fellow, but--so it shall be. I was not at all sure of accepting him before, but now I have quite made up my mind that I won't have him. 'Put me in my coffin first and then into my grave, and then you may marry my daughter to whomsoever you please,' so I said to the general this very morning. You see how I trust you, my boy." "Yes, I see and understand." Mrs. Epanchin gazed keenly into the prince's eyes. She was anxious to see what impression the news as to Evgenie Pavlovitch had made upon him. "Do you know anything about Gavrila Ardalionovitch?" she asked at last. "Oh yes, I know a good deal." "Did you know he had communications with Aglaya?" "No, I didn't," said the prince, trembling a little, and in great agitation. "You say Gavrila Ardalionovitch has private communications with Aglaya?--Impossible!" "Only quite lately. His sister has been working like a rat to clear the way for him all the winter." "I don't believe it!" said the prince abruptly, after a short pause. "Had it been so I should have known long ago." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 197 "Oh, of course, yes; he would have come and wept out his secret on your bosom. Oh, you simpleton--you simpleton! Anyone can deceive you and take you in like a--like a,--aren't you ashamed to trust him? Can't you see that he humbugs you just as much as ever he pleases?" "I know very well that he does deceive me occasionally, and he knows that I know it, but--" The prince did not finish his sentence. "And that's why you trust him, eh? So I should have supposed. Good Lord, was there ever such a man as you? Tfu! and are you aware, sir, that this Gania, or his sister Varia, have brought her into correspondence with Nastasia Philipovna?" "Brought whom?" cried Muishkin. "Aglaya." "I don't believe it! It's impossible! What object could they have?" He jumped up from his chair in his excitement. "Nor do I believe it, in spite of the proofs. The girl is self- willed and fantastic, and insane! She's wicked, wicked! I'll repeat it for a thousand years that she's wicked; they ALL are, just now, all my daughters, even that 'wet hen' Alexandra. And yet I don't believe it. Because I don't choose to believe it, perhaps; but I don't. Why haven't you been?" she turned on the prince suddenly. "Why didn't you come near us all these three days, eh?" The prince began to give his reasons, but she interrupted him again. "Everybody takes you in and deceives you; you went to town yesterday. I dare swear you went down on your knees to that rogue, and begged him to accept your ten thousand roubles!" "I never thought of doing any such thing. I have not seen him, and he is not a rogue, in my opinion. I have had a letter from him." "Show it me!" The prince took a paper from his pocket-book, and handed it to Lizabetha Prokofievna. It ran as follows: "SIR, "In the eyes of the world I am sure that I have no cause for pride or self-esteem. I am much too insignificant for that. But what may be so to other men's eyes is not so to yours. I am convinced that you are better than other people. Doktorenko disagrees with me, but I am content to differ from him on this point. I will never accept one single copeck from you, but you have helped my mother, and I am bound to be grateful to you for that, however weak it may seem. At any rate, I have changed my opinion about you, and I think right to inform you of the fact; but I also suppose that there can be no further inter course between us " ANTIP BURDOVSKY. "P.S.--The two hundred roubles I owe you shall certainly be repaid in time." "How extremely stupid!" cried Mrs. Epanchin, giving back the letter abruptly. "It was not worth the trouble of reading. Why are you smiling?" "Confess that you are pleased to have read it." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 198 "What! Pleased with all that nonsense! Why, cannot you see that they are all infatuated with pride and vanity?" "He has acknowledged himself to be in the wrong. Don't you see that the greater his vanity, the more difficult this admission must have been on his part? Oh, what a little child you are, Lizabetha Prokofievna!" "Are you tempting me to box your ears for you, or what?" "Not at all. I am only proving that you are glad about the letter. Why conceal your real feelings? You always like to do it." "Never come near my house again!" cried Mrs. Epanchin, pale with rage. "Don't let me see as much as a SHADOW of you about the place! Do you hear?" "Oh yes, and in three days you'll come and invite me yourself. Aren't you ashamed now? These are your best feelings; you are only tormenting yourself." "I'll die before I invite you! I shall forget your very name! I've forgotten it already!" She marched towards the door. "But I'm forbidden your house as it is, without your added threats!" cried the prince after her. "What? Who forbade you?" She turned round so suddenly that one might have supposed a needle had been stuck into her. The prince hesitated. He perceived that he had said too much now. "WHO forbade you?" cried Mrs. Epanchin once more. "Aglaya Ivanovna told me--" "When? Speak--quick!" "She sent to say, yesterday morning, that I was never to dare to come near the house again." Lizabetha Prokofievna stood like a stone. "What did she send? Whom? Was it that boy? Was it a message?- quick!" "I had a note," said the prince. "Where is it? Give it here, at once." The prince thought a moment. Then he pulled out of his waistcoat pocket an untidy slip of paper, on which was scrawled: "PRINCE LEF NICOLAIEVITCH,--If you think fit, after all that has passed, to honour our house with a visit, I can assure you you will not find me among the number of those who are in any way delighted to see you. "AGLAYA EPANCHIN." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 199 Mrs. Epanchin reflected a moment. The next minute she flew at the prince, seized his hand, and dragged him after her to the door. "Quick--come along!" she cried, breathless with agitation and impatience. "Come along with me this moment!" "But you declared I wasn't--" "Don't be a simpleton. You behave just as though you weren't a man at all. Come on! I shall see, now, with my own eyes. I shall see all." "Well, let me get my hat, at least." "Here's your miserable hat He couldn't even choose a respectable shape for his hat! Come on! She did that because I took your part and said you ought to have come--little vixen!--else she would never have sent you that silly note. It's a most improper note, I call it; most improper for such an intelligent, well-brought-up girl to write. H'm! I dare say she was annoyed that you didn't come; but she ought to have known that one can't write like that to an idiot like you, for you'd be sure to take it literally." Mrs. Epanchin was dragging the prince along with her all the time, and never let go of his hand for an instant. "What are you listening for?" she added, seeing that she had committed herself a little. "She wants a clown like you--she hasn't seen one for some time--to play with. That's why she is anxious for you to come to the house. And right glad I am that she'll make a thorough good fool of you. You deserve it; and she can do it--oh! she can, indeed!--as well as most people." PART III I. THE Epanchin family, or at least the more serious members of it, were sometimes grieved because they seemed so unlike the rest of the world. They were not quite certain, but had at times a strong suspicion that things did not happen to them as they did to other people. Others led a quiet, uneventful life, while they were subject to continual upheavals. Others kept on the rails without difficulty; they ran off at the slightest obstacle. Other houses were governed by a timid routine; theirs was somehow different. Perhaps Lizabetha Prokofievna was alone in making these fretful observations; the girls, though not wanting in intelligence, were still young; the general was intelligent, too, but narrow, and in any difficulty he was content to say, "H'm!" and leave the matter to his wife. Consequently, on her fell the responsibility. It was not that they distinguished themselves as a family by any particular originality, or that their excursions off the track led to any breach of the proprieties. Oh no. There was nothing premeditated, there was not even any conscious purpose in it all, and yet, in spite of everything, the family, although highly respected, was not quite what every highly respected family ought to be. For a long time now Lizabetha Prokofievna had had it in her mind that all the trouble was owing to her "unfortunate character, "and this added to her distress. She blamed her own stupid unconventional "eccentricity." Always restless, always on the go, she constantly seemed to lose her way, and to get into trouble over the simplest and more ordinary affairs of life. We said at the beginning of our story, that the Epanchins were liked and esteemed by their neighbours. In spite of his humble origin, Ivan Fedorovitch himself was received everywhere with respect. He deserved this, partly on account of his wealth and position, partly because, though limited, he was really a very good fellow. But a certain limitation of mind seems to be an indispensable asset, if not to all public personages, at least to all serious financiers. Added to this, his manner was modest and unassuming; he knew when to be silent, yet never allowed himself to be trampled upon. Also--and this was more important than all-- he had the advantage by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 200 of being under exalted patronage. As to Lizabetha Prokofievna, she, as the reader knows, belonged to an aristocratic family. True, Russians think more of influential friends than of birth, but she had both. She was esteemed and even loved by people of consequence in society, whose example in receiving her was therefore followed by others. It seems hardly necessary to remark that her family worries and anxieties had little or no foundation, or that her imagination increased them to an absurd degree; but if you have a wart on your forehead or nose, you imagine that all the world is looking at it, and that people would make fun of you because of it, even if you had discovered America! Doubtless Lizabetha Prokofievna was considered "eccentric" in society, but she was none the less esteemed: the pity was that she was ceasing to believe in that esteem. When she thought of her daughters, she said to herself sorrowfully that she was a hindrance rather than a help to their future, that her character and temper were absurd, ridiculous, insupportable. Naturally, she put the blame on her surroundings, and from morning to night was quarrelling with her husband and children, whom she really loved to the point of self-sacrifice, even, one might say, of passion. She was, above all distressed by the idea that her daughters might grow up "eccentric," like herself; she believed that no other society girls were like them. "They are growing into Nihilists!" she repeated over and over again. For years she had tormented herself with this idea, and with the question: "Why don't they get married?" "It is to annoy their mother; that is their one aim in life; it can be nothing else. The fact is it is all of a piece with these modern ideas, that wretched woman's question! Six months ago Aglaya took a fancy to cut off her magnificent hair. Why, even I, when I was young, had nothing like it! The scissors were in her hand, and I had to go down on my knees and implore her... She did it, I know, from sheer mischief, to spite her mother, for she is a naughty, capricious girl, a real spoiled child spiteful and mischievous to a degree! And then Alexandra wanted to shave her head, not from caprice or mischief, but, like a little fool, simply because Aglaya persuaded her she would sleep better without her hair, and not suffer from headache! And how many suitors have they not had during the last five years! Excellent offers, too! What more do they want? Why don't they get married? For no other reason than to vex their mother--none--none!" But Lizabetha Prokofievna felt somewhat consoled when she could say that one of her girls, Adelaida, was settled at last. "It will be one off our hands!" she declared aloud, though in private she expressed herself with greater tenderness. The engagement was both happy and suitable, and was therefore approved in society. Prince S. was a distinguished man, he had money, and his future wife was devoted to him; what more could be desired? Lizabetha Prokofievna had felt less anxious about this daughter, however, although she considered her artistic tastes suspicious. But to make up for them she was, as her mother expressed it, "merry," and had plenty of "common-sense." It was Aglaya's future which disturbed her most. With regard to her eldest daughter, Alexandra, the mother never quite knew whether there was cause for anxiety or not. Sometimes she felt as if there was nothing to be expected from her. She was twenty-five now, and must be fated to be an old maid, and "with such beauty, too!" The mother spent whole nights in weeping and lamenting, while all the time the cause of her grief slumbered peacefully. "What is the matter with her? Is she a Nihilist, or simply a fool?" But Lizabetha Prokofievna knew perfectly well how unnecessary was the last question. She set a high value on Alexandra Ivanovna's judgment, and often consulted her in difficulties; but that she was a 'wet hen' she never for a moment doubted. "She is so calm; nothing rouses her--though wet hens are not always calm! Oh! I can't understand it!" Her eldest daughter inspired Lizabetha with a kind of puzzled compassion. She did not feel this in Aglaya's case, though the latter was her idol. It may be said that these outbursts and epithets, such as "wet hen "(in which the maternal solicitude usually showed itself), only made Alexandra laugh. Sometimes the most trivial thing annoyed Mrs. Epanchin, and drove her into a frenzy. For instance, Alexandra Ivanovna liked to sleep late, and was always dreaming, though her dreams had the peculiarity of being as innocent and naive as those of a child of seven; and the very innocence of her dreams annoyed her mother. Once she dreamt by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 201 of nine hens, and this was the cause of quite a serious quarrel--no one knew why. Another time she had--it was most unusual--a dream with a spark of originality in it. She dreamt of a monk in a dark room, into which she was too frightened to go. Adelaida and Aglaya rushed off with shrieks of laughter to relate this to their mother, but she was quite angry, and said her daughters were all fools. "H'm! she is as stupid as a fool! A veritable 'wet hen'! Nothing excites her; and yet she is not happy; some days it makes one miserable only to look at her! Why is she unhappy, I wonder?" At times Lizabetha Prokofievna put this question to her husband, and as usual she spoke in the threatening tone of one who demands an immediate answer. Ivan Fedorovitch would frown, shrug his shoulders, and at last give his opinion: "She needs a husband!" "God forbid that he should share your ideas, Ivan Fedorovitch!" his wife flashed back. "Or that he should be as gross and churlish as you!" The general promptly made his escape, and Lizabetha Prokofievna after a while grew calm again. That evening, of course, she would be unusually attentive, gentle, and respectful to her "gross and churlish" husband, her "dear, kind Ivan Fedorovitch," for she had never left off loving him. She was even still "in love" with him. He knew it well, and for his part held her in the greatest esteem. But the mother's great and continual anxiety was Aglaya. "She is exactly like me--my image in everything," said Mrs. Epanchin to herself. "A tyrant! A real little demon! A Nihilist! Eccentric, senseless and mischievous! Good Lord, how unhappy she will be!" But as we said before, the fact of Adelaida's approaching marriage was balm to the mother. For a whole month she forgot her fears and worries. Adelaida's fate was settled; and with her name that of Aglaya's was linked, in society gossip. People whispered that Aglaya, too, was "as good as engaged;" and Aglaya always looked so sweet and behaved so well (during this period), that the mother's heart was full of joy. Of course, Evgenie Pavlovitch must be thoroughly studied first, before the final step should be taken; but, really, how lovely dear Aglaya had become--she actually grew more beautiful every day! And then--Yes, and then--this abominable prince showed his face again, and everything went topsy-turvy at once, and everyone seemed as mad as March hares. What had really happened? If it had been any other family than the Epanchins', nothing particular would have happened. But, thanks to Mrs. Epanchin's invariable fussiness and anxiety, there could not be the slightest hitch in the simplest matters of everyday life, but she immediately foresaw the most dreadful and alarming consequences, and suffered accordingly. What then must have been her condition, when, among all the imaginary anxieties and calamities which so constantly beset her, she now saw looming ahead a serious cause for annoyance-- something really likely to arouse doubts and suspicions! "How dared they, how DARED they write that hateful anonymous letter informing me that Aglaya is in communication with Nastasia Philipovna?" she thought, as she dragged the prince along towards her own house, and again when she sat him down at the round table where the family was already assembled. "How dared they so much as THINK of such a thing? I should DIE with shame if I thought there was a particle of truth in it, or if I were to show the letter to Aglaya herself! Who dares play these jokes upon US, the Epanchins? WHY didn't we go to the Yelagin instead of coming down here? I TOLD you we had better go to the Yelagin this summer, Ivan Fedorovitch. It's all your fault. I dare say it was that Varia who sent the letter. It's all Ivan Fedorovitch. THAT woman is doing it all for him, I know she is, to show she can make a fool of by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 202 him now just as she did when he used to give her pearls. "But after all is said, we are mixed up in it. Your daughters are mixed up in it, Ivan Fedorovitch; young ladies in society, young ladies at an age to be married; they were present, they heard everything there was to hear. They were mixed up with that other scene, too, with those dreadful youths. You must be pleased to remember they heard it all. I cannot forgive that wretched prince. I never shall forgive him! And why, if you please, has Aglaya had an attack of nerves for these last three days? Why has she all but quarrelled with her sisters, even with Alexandra-- whom she respects so much that she always kisses her hands as though she were her mother? What are all these riddles of hers that we have to guess? What has Gavrila Ardalionovitch to do with it? Why did she take upon herself to champion him this morning, and burst into tears over it? Why is there an allusion to that cursed 'poor knight' in the anonymous letter? And why did I rush off to him just now like a lunatic, and drag him back here? I do believe I've gone mad at last. What on earth have I done now? To talk to a young man about my daughter's secrets--and secrets having to do with himself, too! Thank goodness, he's an idiot, and a friend of the house! Surely Aglaya hasn't fallen in love with such a gaby! What an idea! Pfu! we ought all to be put under glass cases--myself first of all--and be shown off as curiosities, at ten copecks a peep!" "I shall never forgive you for all this, Ivan Fedorovitch--never! Look at her now. Why doesn't she make fun of him? She said she would, and she doesn't. Look there! She stares at him with all her eyes, and doesn't move; and yet she told him not to come. He looks pale enough; and that abominable chatterbox, Evgenie Pavlovitch, monopolizes the whole of the conversation. Nobody else can get a word in. I could soon find out all about everything if I could only change the subject." The prince certainly was very pale. He sat at the table and seemed to be feeling, by turns, sensations of alarm and rapture. Oh, how frightened he was of looking to one side--one particular corner--whence he knew very well that a pair of dark eyes were watching him intently, and how happy he was to think that he was once more among them, and occasionally hearing that well-known voice, although she had written and forbidden him to come again! "What on earth will she say to me, I wonder?" he thought to himself. He had not said a word yet; he sat silent and listened to Evgenie Pavlovitch's eloquence. The latter had never appeared so happy and excited as on this evening. The prince listened to him, but for a long time did not take in a word he said. Excepting Ivan Fedorovitch, who had not as yet returned from town, the whole family was present. Prince S. was there; and they all intended to go out to hear the band very soon. Colia arrived presently and joined the circle. "So he is received as usual, after all," thought the prince. The Epanchins' country-house was a charming building, built after the model of a Swiss chalet, and covered with creepers. It was surrounded on all sides by a flower garden, and the family sat, as a rule, on the open verandah as at the prince's house. The subject under discussion did not appear to be very popular with the assembly, and some would have been delighted to change it; but Evgenie would not stop holding forth, and the prince's arrival seemed to spur him on to still further oratorical efforts. Lizabetha Prokofievna frowned, but had not as yet grasped the subject, which seemed to have arisen out of a heated argument. Aglaya sat apart, almost in the corner, listening in stubborn silence. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 203 "Excuse me," continued Evgenie Pavlovitch hotly, "I don't say a word against liberalism. Liberalism is not a sin, it is a necessary part of a great whole, which whole would collapse and fall to pieces without it. Liberalism has just as much right to exist as has the most moral conservatism; but I am attacking RUSSIAN liberalism; and I attack it for the simple reason that a Russian liberal is not a Russian liberal, he is a non-Russian liberal. Show me a real Russian liberal, and I'll kiss him before you all, with pleasure." "If he cared to kiss you, that is," said Alexandra, whose cheeks were red with irritation and excitement. "Look at that, now," thought the mother to herself, "she does nothing but sleep and eat for a year at a time, and then suddenly flies out in the most incomprehensible way!" The prince observed that Alexandra appeared to be angry with Evgenie, because he spoke on a serious subject in a frivolous manner, pretending to be in earnest, but with an under-current of irony. "I was saying just now, before you came in, prince, that there has been nothing national up to now, about our liberalism, and nothing the liberals do, or have done, is in the least degree national. They are drawn from two classes only, the old landowning class, and clerical families--" "How, nothing that they have done is Russian?" asked Prince S. "It may be Russian, but it is not national. Our liberals are not Russian, nor are our conservatives, and you may be sure that the nation does not recognize anything that has been done by the landed gentry, or by the seminarists, or what is to be done either." "Come, that's good! How can you maintain such a paradox? If you are serious, that is. I cannot allow such a statement about the landed proprietors to pass unchallenged. Why, you are a landed proprietor yourself!" cried Prince S. hotly. "I suppose you'll say there is nothing national about our literature either?" said Alexandra. "Well, I am not a great authority on literary questions, but I certainly do hold that Russian literature is not Russian, except perhaps Lomonosoff, Pouschkin and Gogol." "In the first place, that is a considerable admission, and in the second place, one of the above was a peasant, and the other two were both landed proprietors!" "Quite so, but don't be in such a hurry! For since it has been the part of these three men, and only these three, to say something absolutely their own, not borrowed, so by this very fact these three men become really national. If any Russian shall have done or said anything really and absolutely original, he is to be called national from that moment, though he may not be able to talk the Russian language; still he is a national Russian. I consider that an axiom. But we were not speaking of literature; we began by discussing the socialists. Very well then, I insist that there does not exist one single Russian socialist. There does not, and there has never existed such a one, because all socialists are derived from the two classes--the landed proprietors, and the seminarists. All our eminent socialists are merely old liberals of the class of landed proprietors, men who were liberals in the days of serfdom. Why do you laugh? Give me their books, give me their studies, their memoirs, and though I am not a literary critic, yet I will prove as clear as day that every chapter and every word of their writings has been the work of a former landed proprietor of the old school. You'll find that all their raptures, all their generous transports are proprietary, all their woes and their tears, proprietary; all proprietary or seminarist! You are laughing again, and you, prince, are smiling too. Don't you agree with me?" It was true enough that everybody was laughing, the prince among them. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 204 "I cannot tell you on the instant whether I agree with you or not," said the latter, suddenly stopping his laughter, and starting like a schoolboy caught at mischief. "But, I assure you, I am listening to you with extreme gratification." So saying, he almost panted with agitation, and a cold sweat stood upon his forehead. These were his first words since he had entered the house; he tried to lift his eyes, and look around, but dared not; Evgenie Pavlovitch noticed his confusion, and smiled. "I'll just tell you one fact, ladies and gentlemen," continued the latter, with apparent seriousness and even exaltation of manner, but with a suggestion of "chaff" behind every word, as though he were laughing in his sleeve at his own nonsense--"a fact, the discovery of which, I believe, I may claim to have made by myself alone. At all events, no other has ever said or written a word about it; and in this fact is expressed the whole essence of Russian liberalism of the sort which I am now considering. "In the first place, what is liberalism, speaking generally, but an attack (whether mistaken or reasonable, is quite another question) upon the existing order of things? Is this so? Yes. Very well. Then my 'fact' consists in this, that RUSSIAN liberalism is not an attack upon the existing order of things, but an attack upon the very essence of things themselves--indeed, on the things themselves; not an attack on the Russian order of things, but on Russia itself. My Russian liberal goes so far as to reject Russia; that is, he hates and strikes his own mother. Every misfortune and mishap of the mother-country fills him with mirth, and even with ecstasy. He hates the national customs, Russian history, and everything. If he has a justification, it is that he does not know what he is doing, and believes that his hatred of Russia is the grandest and most profitable kind of liberalism. (You will often find a liberal who is applauded and esteemed by his fellows, but who is in reality the dreariest, blindest, dullest of conservatives, and is not aware of the fact.) This hatred for Russia has been mistaken by some of our 'Russian liberals' for sincere love of their country, and they boast that they see better than their neighbours what real love of one's country should consist in. But of late they have grown, more candid and are ashamed of the expression 'love of country,' and have annihilated the very spirit of the words as something injurious and petty and undignified. This is the truth, and I hold by it; but at the same time it is a phenomenon which has not been repeated at any other time or place; and therefore, though I hold to it as a fact, yet I recognize that it is an accidental phenomenon, and may likely enough pass away. There can be no such thing anywhere else as a liberal who really hates his country; and how is this fact to be explained among US? By my original statement that a Russian liberal is NOT a RUSSIAN liberal--that's the only explanation that I can see." "I take all that you have said as a joke," said Prince S. seriously. "I have not seen all kinds of liberals, and cannot, therefore, set myself up as a judge," said Alexandra, "but I have heard all you have said with indignation. You have taken some accidental case and twisted it into a universal law, which is unjust." "Accidental case!" said Evgenie Pavlovitch. "Do you consider it an accidental case, prince?" "I must also admit," said the prince, "that I have not seen much, or been very far into the question; but I cannot help thinking that you are more or less right, and that Russian liberalism-- that phase of it which you are considering, at least--really is sometimes inclined to hate Russia itself, and not only its existing order of things in general. Of course this is only PARTIALLY the truth; you cannot lay down the law for all..." The prince blushed and broke off, without finishing what he meant to say. In spite of his shyness and agitation, he could not help being greatly interested in the conversation. A special characteristic of his was the naive candour with which he always listened to arguments which interested him, and with which he answered any questions put to him on the subject at issue. In the very expression of his face by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 205 this naivete was unmistakably evident, this disbelief in the insincerity of others, and unsuspecting disregard of irony or humour in their words. But though Evgenie Pavlovitch had put his questions to the prince with no other purpose but to enjoy the joke of his simple-minded seriousness, yet now, at his answer, he was surprised into some seriousness himself, and looked gravely at Muishkin as though he had not expected that sort of answer at all. "Why, how strange!" he ejaculated. "You didn't answer me seriously, surely, did you?" "Did not you ask me the question seriously" inquired the prince, in amazement. Everybody laughed. "Oh, trust HIM for that!" said Adelaida. "Evgenie Pavlovitch turns everything and everybody he can lay hold of to ridicule. You should hear the things he says sometimes, apparently in perfect seriousness." "In my opinion the conversation has been a painful one throughout, and we ought never to have begun it," said Alexandra. "We were all going for a walk--" "Come along then," said Evgenie; "it's a glorious evening. But, to prove that this time I was speaking absolutely seriously, and especially to prove this to the prince (for you, prince, have interested me exceedingly, and I swear to you that I am not quite such an ass as I like to appear sometimes, although I am rather an ass, I admit), and--well, ladies and gentlemen, will you allow me to put just one more question to the prince, out of pure curiosity? It shall be the last. This question came into my mind a couple of hours since (you see, prince, I do think seriously at times), and I made my own decision upon it; now I wish to hear what the prince will say to it." "We have just used the expression 'accidental case.' This is a significant phrase; we often hear it. Well, not long since everyone was talking and reading about that terrible murder of six people on the part of a--young fellow, and of the extraordinary speech of the counsel for the defence, who observed that in the poverty-stricken condition of the criminal it must have come NATURALLY into his head to kill these six people. I do not quote his words, but that is the sense of them, or something very like it. Now, in my opinion, the barrister who put forward this extraordinary plea was probably absolutely convinced that he was stating the most liberal, the most humane, the most enlightened view of the case that could possibly be brought forward in these days. Now, was this distortion, this capacity for a perverted way of viewing things, a special or accidental case, or is such a general rule?" Everyone laughed at this. "A special case--accidental, of course!" cried Alexandra and Adelaida. "Let me remind you once more, Evgenie," said Prince S., "that your joke is getting a little threadbare." "What do you think about it, prince?" asked Evgenie, taking no notice of the last remark, and observing Muishkin's serious eyes fixed upon his face. "What do you think--was it a special or a usual case--the rule, or an exception? I confess I put the question especially for you." "No, I don't think it was a special case," said the prince, quietly, but firmly. "My dear fellow!" cried Prince S., with some annoyance, "don't you see that he is chaffing you? He is simply laughing at you, and wants to make game of you." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 206 "I thought Evgenie Pavlovitch was talking seriously," said the prince, blushing and dropping his eyes. "My dear prince," continued Prince S. "remember what you and I were saying two or three months ago. We spoke of the fact that in our newly opened Law Courts one could already lay one's finger upon so many talented and remarkable young barristers. How pleased you were with the state of things as we found it, and how glad I was to observe your delight! We both said it was a matter to be proud of; but this clumsy defence that Evgenie mentions, this strange argument CAN, of course, only be an accidental case --one in a thousand!" The prince reflected a little, but very soon he replied, with absolute conviction in his tone, though he still spoke somewhat shyly and timidly: "I only wished to say that this 'distortion,' as Evgenie Pavlovitch expressed it, is met with very often, and is far more the general rule than the exception, unfortunately for Russia. So much so, that if this distortion were not the general rule, perhaps these dreadful crimes would be less frequent." "Dreadful crimes? But I can assure you that crimes just as dreadful, and probably more horrible, have occurred before our times, and at all times, and not only here in Russia, but everywhere else as well. And in my opinion it is not at all likely that such murders will cease to occur for a very long time to come. The only difference is that in former times there was less publicity, while now everyone talks and writes freely about such things--which fact gives the impression that such crimes have only now sprung into existence. That is where your mistake lies--an extremely natural mistake, I assure you, my dear fellow!" said Prince S. "I know that there were just as many, and just as terrible, crimes before our times. Not long since I visited a convict prison and made acquaintance with some of the criminals. There were some even more dreadful criminals than this one we have been speaking of--men who have murdered a dozen of their fellow- creatures, and feel no remorse whatever. But what I especially noticed was this, that the very most hopeless and remorseless murderer--however hardened a criminal he may be--still KNOWS THAT HE IS A CRIMINAL; that is, he is conscious that he has acted wickedly, though he may feel no remorse whatever. And they were all like this. Those of whom Evgenie Pavlovitch has spoken, do not admit that they are criminals at all; they think they had a right to do what they did, and that they were even doing a good deed, perhaps. I consider there is the greatest difference between the two cases. And recollect--it was a YOUTH, at the particular age which is most helplessly susceptible to the distortion of ideas!" Prince S. was now no longer smiling; he gazed at the prince in bewilderment. Alexandra, who had seemed to wish to put in her word when the prince began, now sat silent, as though some sudden thought had caused her to change her mind about speaking. Evgenie Pavlovitch gazed at him in real surprise, and this time his expression of face had no mockery in it whatever. "What are you looking so surprised about, my friend?" asked Mrs. Epanchin, suddenly. "Did you suppose he was stupider than yourself, and was incapable of forming his own opinions, or what?" "No! Oh no! Not at all!" said Evgenie. "But--how is it, prince, that you--(excuse the question, will you?)--if you are capable of observing and seeing things as you evidently do, how is it that you saw nothing distorted or perverted in that claim upon your property, which you acknowledged a day or two since; and which was full of arguments founded upon the most distorted views of right and wrong?" "I'll tell you what, my friend," cried Mrs. Epanchin, of a sudden, "here are we all sitting here and imagining we are very clever, and perhaps laughing at the prince, some of us, and meanwhile he has received a letter this very day in which that same claimant renounces his claim, and begs the prince's pardon. There I we don't by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 207 often get that sort of letter; and yet we are not ashamed to walk with our noses in the air before him." "And Hippolyte has come down here to stay," said Colia, suddenly. "What! has he arrived?" said the prince, starting up. "Yes, I brought him down from town just after you had left the house." "There now! It's just like him," cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, boiling over once more, and entirely oblivious of the fact that she had just taken the prince's part. "I dare swear that you went up to town yesterday on purpose to get the little wretch to do you the great honour of coming to stay at your house. You did go up to town, you know you did--you said so yourself! Now then, did you, or did you not, go down on your knees and beg him to come, confess!" "No, he didn't, for I saw it all myself," said Colia. "On the contrary, Hippolyte kissed his hand twice and thanked him; and all the prince said was that he thought Hippolyte might feel better here in the country!" "Don't, Colia,--what is the use of saying all that?" cried the prince, rising and taking his hat. "Where are you going to now?" cried Mrs. Epanchin. "Never mind about him now, prince," said Colia. "He is all right and taking a nap after the journey. He is very happy to be here; but I think perhaps it would be better if you let him alone for today,--he is very sensitive now that he is so ill--and he might be embarrassed if you show him too much attention at first. He is decidedly better today, and says he has not felt so well for the last six months, and has coughed much less, too." The prince observed that Aglaya came out of her corner and approached the table at this point. He did not dare look at her, but he was conscious, to the very tips of his fingers, that she was gazing at him, perhaps angrily; and that she had probably flushed up with a look of fiery indignation in her black eyes. "It seems to me, Mr. Colia, that you were very foolish to bring your young friend down--if he is the same consumptive boy who wept so profusely, and invited us all to his own funeral," remarked Evgenie Pavlovitch. "He talked so eloquently about the blank wall outside his bedroom window, that I'm sure he will never support life here without it. " "I think so too," said Mrs. Epanchin; "he will quarrel with you, and be off," and she drew her workbox towards her with an air of dignity, quite oblivious of the fact that the family was about to start for a walk in the park. "Yes, I remember he boasted about the blank wall in an extraordinary way," continued Evgenie, "and I feel that without that blank wall he will never be able to die eloquently; and he does so long to die eloquently!" "Oh, you must forgive him the blank wall," said the prince, quietly. "He has come down to see a few trees now, poor fellow." "Oh, I forgive him with all my heart; you may tell him so if you like," laughed Evgenie. "I don't think you should take it quite like that," said the prince, quietly, and without removing his eyes from the carpet. "I think it is more a case of his forgiving you " "Forgiving me! why so? What have I done to need his forgiveness?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 208 "If you don't understand, then--but of course, you do understand. He wished--he wished to bless you all round and to have your blessing--before he died--that's all." "My dear prince," began Prince S., hurriedly, exchanging glances with some of those present, "you will not easily find heaven on earth, and yet you seem to expect to. Heaven is a difficult thing to find anywhere, prince; far more difficult than appears to that good heart of yours. Better stop this conversation, or we shall all be growing quite disturbed in our minds, and--" "Let's go and hear the band, then," said Lizabetha Prokofievna, angrily rising from her place. The rest of the company followed her example. II. THE prince suddenly approached Evgenie Pavlovitch. "Evgenie Pavlovitch," he said, with strange excitement and seizing the latter's hand in his own, "be assured that I esteem you as a generous and honourable man, in spite of everything. Be assured of that." Evgenie Pavlovitch fell back a step in astonishment. For one moment it was all he could do to restrain himself from bursting out laughing; but, looking closer, he observed that the prince did not seem to be quite himself; at all events, he was in a very curious state. "I wouldn't mind betting, prince," he cried, "that you did not in the least mean to say that, and very likely you meant to address someone else altogether. What is it? Are you feeling unwell or anything?" "Very likely, extremely likely, and you must be a very close observer to detect the fact that perhaps I did not intend to come up to YOU at all." So saying he smiled strangely; but suddenly and excitedly he began again: "Don't remind me of what I have done or said. Don't! I am very much ashamed of myself, I--" "Why, what have you done? I don't understand you." "I see you are ashamed of me, Evgenie Pavlovitch; you are blushing for me; that's a sign of a good heart. Don't be afraid; I shall go away directly." "What's the matter with him? Do his fits begin like that?" said Lizabetha Prokofievna, in a high state of alarm, addressing Colia. "No, no, Lizabetha Prokofievna, take no notice of me. I am not going to have a fit. I will go away directly; but I know I am afflicted. I was twenty-four years an invalid, you see--the first twenty-four years of my life--so take all I do and say as the sayings and actions of an invalid. I'm going away directly, I really am--don't be afraid. I am not blushing, for I don't think I need blush about it, need I? But I see that I am out of place in society--society is better without me. It's not vanity, I assure you. I have thought over it all these last three days, and I have made up my mind that I ought to unbosom myself candidly before you at the first opportunity. There are certain things, certain great ideas, which I must not so much as approach, as Prince S. has just reminded me, or I shall make you all laugh. I have no sense of proportion, I know; my words and gestures do not express my ideas--they are a humiliation and abasement of the ideas, and therefore, I have no right--and I am too sensitive. Still, I believe I am beloved in this household, and esteemed far more than I deserve. But I can't help knowing that after twenty-four years of illness there must be some trace left, so that it by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 209 is impossible for people to refrain from laughing at me sometimes; don't you think so?" He seemed to pause for a reply, for some verdict, as it were, and looked humbly around him. All present stood rooted to the earth with amazement at this unexpected and apparently uncalled-for outbreak; but the poor prince's painful and rambling speech gave rise to a strange episode. "Why do you say all this here?" cried Aglaya, suddenly. "Why do you talk like this to THEM?" She appeared to be in the last stages of wrath and irritation; her eyes flashed. The prince stood dumbly and blindly before her, and suddenly grew pale. "There is not one of them all who is worthy of these words of yours," continued Aglaya. "Not one of them is worth your little finger, not one of them has heart or head to compare with yours! You are more honest than all, and better, nobler, kinder, wiser than all. There are some here who are unworthy to bend and pick up the handkerchief you have just dropped. Why do you humiliate yourself like this, and place yourself lower than these people? Why do you debase yourself before them? Why have you no pride?" "My God! Who would ever have believed this?" cried Mrs. Epanchin, wringing her hands. "Hurrah for the 'poor knight'!" cried Colia. "Be quiet! How dare they laugh at me in your house?" said Aglaya, turning sharply on her mother in that hysterical frame of mind that rides recklessly over every obstacle and plunges blindly through proprieties. "Why does everyone, everyone worry and torment me? Why have they all been bullying me these three days about you, prince? I will not marry you--never, and under no circumstances! Know that once and for all; as if anyone could marry an absurd creature like you! Just look in the glass and see what you look like, this very moment! Why, WHY do they torment me and say I am going to marry you? You must know it; you are in the plot with them!" "No one ever tormented you on the subject," murmured Adelaida, aghast. "No one ever thought of such a thing! There has never been a word said about it!" cried Alexandra. "Who has been annoying her? Who has been tormenting the child? Who could have said such a thing to her? Is she raving?" cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, trembling with rage, to the company in general. "Every one of them has been saying it--every one of them--all these three days! And I will never, never marry him!" So saying, Aglaya burst into bitter tears, and, hiding her face in her handkerchief, sank back into a chair. "But he has never even--" "I have never asked you to marry me, Aglaya Ivanovna!" said the prince, of a sudden. "WHAT?" cried Mrs. Epanchin, raising her hands in horror. "WHAT'S that?" She could not believe her ears. "I meant to say--I only meant to say," said the prince, faltering, "I merely meant to explain to Aglaya Ivanovna--to have the honour to explain, as it were--that I had no intention--never had--to ask the honour of by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 210 her hand. I assure you I am not guilty, Aglaya Ivanovna, I am not, indeed. I never did wish to--I never thought of it at all--and never shall--you'll see it yourself-- you may be quite assured of it. Some wicked person has been maligning me to you; but it's all right. Don't worry about it." So saying, the prince approached Aglaya. She took the handkerchief from her face, glanced keenly at him, took in what he had said, and burst out laughing--such a merry, unrestrained laugh, so hearty and gay, that. Adelaida could not contain herself. She, too, glanced at the prince's panic-stricken countenance, then rushed at her sister, threw her arms round her neck, and burst into as merry a fit of laughter as Aglaya's own. They laughed together like a couple of school-girls. Hearing and seeing this, the prince smiled happily, and in accents of relief and joy, he exclaimed "Well, thank God--thank God!" Alexandra now joined in, and it looked as though the three sisters were going to laugh on for ever. "They are insane," muttered Lizabetha Prokofievna. "Either they frighten one out of one's wits, or else--" But Prince S. was laughing now, too, so was Evgenie Pavlovitch, so was Colia, and so was the prince himself, who caught the infection as he looked round radiantly upon the others. "Come along, let's go out for a walk!" cried Adelaida. "We'll all go together, and the prince must absolutely go with us. You needn't go away, you dear good fellow! ISN'T he a dear, Aglaya? Isn't he, mother? I must really give him a kiss for--for his explanation to Aglaya just now. Mother, dear, I may kiss him, mayn't I? Aglaya, may I kiss YOUR prince?" cried the young rogue, and sure enough she skipped up to the prince and kissed his forehead. He seized her hands, and pressed them so hard that Adelaida nearly cried out; he then gazed with delight into her eyes, and raising her right hand to his lips with enthusiasm, kissed it three times. "Come along," said Aglaya. "Prince, you must walk with me. May he, mother? This young cavalier, who won't have me? You said you would NEVER have me, didn't you, prince? No-no, not like that; THAT'S not the way to give your arm. Don't you know how to give your arm to a lady yet? There--so. Now, come along, you and I will lead the way. Would you like to lead the way with me alone, tete-a-tete?" She went on talking and chatting without a pause, with occasional little bursts of laughter between. "Thank God--thank God!" said Lizabetha Prokofievna to herself, without quite knowing why she felt so relieved. "What extraordinary people they are!" thought Prince S., for perhaps the hundredth time since he had entered into intimate relations with the family; but--he liked these "extraordinary people," all the same. As for Prince Lef Nicolaievitch himself, Prince S. did not seem quite to like him, somehow. He was decidedly preoccupied and a little disturbed as they all started off. Evgenie Pavlovitch seemed to be in a lively humour. He made Adelaida and Alexandra laugh all the way to the Vauxhall; but they both laughed so very really and promptly that the worthy Evgenie began at last to suspect that they were not listening to him at all. At this idea, he burst out laughing all at once, in quite unaffected mirth, and without giving any explanation. The sisters, who also appeared to be in high spirits, never tired of glancing at Aglaya and the prince, who were walking in front. It was evident that their younger sister was a thorough puzzle to them both. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 211 Prince S. tried hard to get up a conversation with Mrs. Epanchin upon outside subjects, probably with the good intention of distracting and amusing her; but he bored her dreadfully. She was absent-minded to a degree, and answered at cross purposes, and sometimes not at all. But the puzzle and mystery of Aglaya was not yet over for the evening. The last exhibition fell to the lot of the prince alone. When they had proceeded some hundred paces or so from the house, Aglaya said to her obstinately silent cavalier in a quick half- whisper: "Look to the right!" The prince glanced in the direction indicated. "Look closer. Do you see that bench, in the park there, just by those three big trees--that green bench?" The prince replied that he saw it. "Do you like the position of it? Sometimes of a morning early, at seven o'clock, when all the rest are still asleep, I come out and sit there alone." The prince muttered that the spot was a lovely one. "Now, go away, I don't wish to have your arm any longer; or perhaps, better, continue to give me your arm, and walk along beside me, but don't speak a word to me. I wish to think by myself." The warning was certainly unnecessary; for the prince would not have said a word all the rest of the time whether forbidden to speak or not. His heart beat loud and painfully when Aglaya spoke of the bench; could she--but no! he banished the thought, after an instant's deliberation. At Pavlofsk, on weekdays, the public is more select than it is on Sundays and Saturdays, when the townsfolk come down to walk about and enjoy the park. The ladies dress elegantly, on these days, and it is the fashion to gather round the band, which is probably the best of our pleasure-garden bands, and plays the newest pieces. The behaviour of the public is most correct and proper, and there is an appearance of friendly intimacy among the usual frequenters. Many come for nothing but to look at their acquaintances, but there are others who come for the sake of the music. It is very seldom that anything happens to break the harmony of the proceedings, though, of course, accidents will happen everywhere. On this particular evening the weather was lovely, and there were a large number of people present. All the places anywhere near the orchestra were occupied. Our friends took chairs near the side exit. The crowd and the music cheered Mrs. Epanchin a little, and amused the girls; they bowed and shook hands with some of their friends and nodded at a distance to others; they examined the ladies' dresses, noticed comicalities and eccentricities among the people, and laughed and talked among themselves. Evgenie Pavlovitch, too, found plenty of friends to bow to. Several people noticed Aglaya and the prince, who were still together. Before very long two or three young men had come up, and one or two remained to talk; all of these young men appeared to be on intimate terms with Evgenie Pavlovitch. Among them was a young officer, a remarkably handsome fellow--very good-natured and a great chatterbox. He tried to get up a conversation with Aglaya, and did his best to secure her attention. Aglaya behaved very graciously to him, and chatted and laughed merrily. Evgenie Pavlovitch begged the prince's leave to introduce their friend to him. The prince by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 212 hardly realized what was wanted of him, but the introduction came off; the two men bowed and shook hands. Evgenie Pavlovitch's friend asked the prince some question, but the latter did not reply, or if he did, he muttered something so strangely indistinct that there was nothing to be made of it. The officer stared intently at him, then glanced at Evgenie, divined why the latter had introduced him, and gave his undivided attention to Aglaya again. Only Evgenie Pavlovitch observed that Aglaya flushed up for a moment at this. The prince did not notice that others were talking and making themselves agreeable to Aglaya; in fact, at moments, he almost forgot that he was sitting by her himself. At other moments he felt a longing to go away somewhere and be alone with his thoughts, and to feel that no one knew where he was. Or if that were impossible he would like to be alone at home, on the terrace-without either Lebedeff or his children, or anyone else about him, and to lie there and think--a day and night and another day again! He thought of the mountains-and especially of a certain spot which he used to frequent, whence he would look down upon the distant valleys and fields, and see the waterfall, far off, like a little silver thread, and the old ruined castle in the distance. Oh! how he longed to be there now--alone with his thoughts--to think of one thing all his life--one thing! A thousand years would not be too much time! And let everyone here forget him--forget him utterly! How much better it would have been if they had never known him--if all this could but prove to be a dream. Perhaps it was a dream! Now and then he looked at Aglaya for five minutes at a time, without taking his eyes off her face; but his expression was very strange; he would gaze at her as though she were an object a couple of miles distant, or as though he were looking at her portrait and not at herself at all. "Why do you look at me like that, prince?" she asked suddenly, breaking off her merry conversation and laughter with those about her. "I'm afraid of you! You look as though you were just going to put out your hand and touch my face to see if it's real! Doesn't he, Evgenie Pavlovitch--doesn't he look like that?" The prince seemed surprised that he should have been addressed at all; he reflected a moment, but did not seem to take in what had been said to him; at all events, he did not answer. But observing that she and the others had begun to laugh, he too opened his mouth and laughed with them. The laughter became general, and the young officer, who seemed a particularly lively sort of person, simply shook with mirth. Aglaya suddenly whispered angrily to herself the word-- "Idiot!" "My goodness--surely she is not in love with such a--surely she isn't mad!" groaned Mrs. Epanchin, under her breath. "It's all a joke, mamma; it's just a joke like the 'poor knight' --nothing more whatever, I assure you!" Alexandra whispered in her ear. "She is chaffing him--making a fool of him, after her own private fashion, that's all! But she carries it just a little too far--she is a regular little actress. How she frightened us just now--didn't she?--and all for a lark!" "Well, it's lucky she has happened upon an idiot, then, that's all I can say!" whispered Lizabetha Prokofievna, who was somewhat comforted, however, by her daughter's remark. The prince had heard himself referred to as "idiot," and had shuddered at the moment; but his shudder, it so happened, was not caused by the word applied to him. The fact was that in the crowd, not far from where lie by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 213 was sitting, a pale familiar face, with curly black hair, and a well-known smile and expression, had flashed across his vision for a moment, and disappeared again. Very likely he had imagined it! There only remained to him the impression of a strange smile, two eyes, and a bright green tie. Whether the man had disappeared among the crowd, or whether he had turned towards the Vauxhall, the prince could not say. But a moment or two afterwards he began to glance keenly about him. That first vision might only too likely be the forerunner of a second; it was almost certain to be so. Surely he had not forgotten the possibility of such a meeting when he came to the Vauxhall? True enough, he had not remarked where he was coming to when he set out with Aglaya; he had not been in a condition to remark anything at all. Had he been more careful to observe his companion, he would have seen that for the last quarter of an hour Aglaya had also been glancing around in apparent anxiety, as though she expected to see someone, or something particular, among the crowd of people. Now, at the moment when his own anxiety became so marked, her excitement also increased visibly, and when he looked about him, she did the same. The reason for their anxiety soon became apparent. From that very side entrance to the Vauxhall, near which the prince and all the Epanchin party were seated, there suddenly appeared quite a large knot of persons, at least a dozen. Heading this little band walked three ladies, two of whom were remarkably lovely; and there was nothing surprising in the fact that they should have had a large troop of admirers following in their wake. But there was something in the appearance of both the ladies and their admirers which was peculiar, quite different for that of the rest of the public assembled around the orchestra. Nearly everyone observed the little band advancing, and all pretended not to see or notice them, except a few young fellows who exchanged glances and smiled, saying something to one another in whispers. It was impossible to avoid noticing them, however, in reality, for they made their presence only too conspicuous by laughing and talking loudly. It was to be supposed that some of them were more than half drunk, although they were well enough dressed, some even particularly well. There were one or two, however, who were very strange-looking creatures, with flushed faces and extraordinary clothes; some were military men; not all were quite young; one or two were middle-aged gentlemen of decidedly disagreeable appearance, men who are avoided in society like the plague, decked out in large gold studs and rings, and magnificently "got up," generally. Among our suburban resorts there are some which enjoy a specially high reputation for respectability and fashion; but the most careful individual is not absolutely exempt from the danger of a tile falling suddenly upon his head from his neighbour's roof. Such a tile was about to descend upon the elegant and decorous public now assembled to hear the music. In order to pass from the Vauxhall to the band-stand, the visitor has to descend two or three steps. Just at these steps the group paused, as though it feared to proceed further; but very quickly one of the three ladies, who formed its apex, stepped forward into the charmed circle, followed by two members of her suite. One of these was a middle-aged man of very respectable appearance, but with the stamp of parvenu upon him, a man whom nobody knew, and who evidently knew nobody. The other follower was younger and far less respectable-looking. No one else followed the eccentric lady; but as she descended the steps she did not even look behind her, as though it were absolutely the same to her whether anyone were following or not. She laughed and talked by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 214 loudly, however, just as before. She was dressed with great taste, but with rather more magnificence than was needed for the occasion, perhaps. She walked past the orchestra, to where an open carriage was waiting, near the road. The prince had not seen HER for more than three months. All these days since his arrival from Petersburg he had intended to pay her a visit, but some mysterious presentiment had restrained him. He could not picture to himself what impression this meeting with her would make upon him, though he had often tried to imagine it, with fear and trembling. One fact was quite certain, and that was that the meeting would be painful. Several times during the last six months he had recalled the effect which the first sight of this face had had upon him, when he only saw its portrait. He recollected well that even the portrait face had left but too painful an impression. That month in the provinces, when he had seen this woman nearly every day, had affected him so deeply that he could not now look back upon it calmly. In the very look of this woman there was something which tortured him. In conversation with Rogojin he had attributed this sensation to pity--immeasurable pity, and this was the truth. The sight of the portrait face alone had filled his heart full of the agony of real sympathy; and this feeling of sympathy, nay, of actual SUFFERING, for her, had never left his heart since that hour, and was still in full force. Oh yes, and more powerful than ever! But the prince was not satisfied with what he had said to Rogojin. Only at this moment, when she suddenly made her appearance before him, did he realize to the full the exact emotion which she called up in him, and which he had not described correctly to Rogojin. And, indeed, there were no words in which he could have expressed his horror, yes, HORROR, for he was now fully convinced from his own private knowledge of her, that the woman was mad. If, loving a woman above everything in the world, or at least having a foretaste of the possibility of such love for her, one were suddenly to behold her on a chain, behind bars and under the lash of a keeper, one would feel something like what the poor prince now felt. "What's the matter?" asked Aglaya, in a whisper, giving his sleeve a little tug. He turned his head towards her and glanced at her black and (for some reason) flashing eyes, tried to smile, and then, apparently forgetting her in an instant, turned to the right once more, and continued to watch the startling apparition before him. Nastasia Philipovna was at this moment passing the young ladies' chairs. Evgenie Pavlovitch continued some apparently extremely funny and interesting anecdote to Alexandra, speaking quickly and with much animation. The prince remembered that at this moment Aglaya remarked in a half-whisper: "WHAT a--" She did not finish her indefinite sentence; she restrained herself in a moment; but it was enough. Nastasia Philipovna, who up to now had been walking along as though she had not noticed the Epanchin party, suddenly turned her head in their direction, as though she had just observed Evgenie Pavlovitch sitting there for the first time. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 215 "Why, I declare, here he is!" she cried, stopping suddenly. "The man one can't find with all one's messengers sent about the place, sitting just under one's nose, exactly where one never thought of looking! I thought you were sure to be at your uncle's by this time." Evgenie Pavlovitch flushed up and looked angrily at Nastasia Philipovna, then turned his back on her. "What I don't you know about it yet? He doesn't know--imagine that! Why, he's shot himself. Your uncle shot himself this very morning. I was told at two this afternoon. Half the town must know it by now. They say there are three hundred and fifty thousand roubles, government money, missing; some say five hundred thousand. And I was under the impression that he would leave you a fortune! He's whistled it all away. A most depraved old gentleman, really! Well, ta, ta!--bonne chance! Surely you intend to be off there, don't you? Ha, ha! You've retired from the army in good time, I see! Plain clothes! Well done, sly rogue! Nonsense! I see--you knew it all before--I dare say you knew all about it yesterday-" Although the impudence of this attack, this public proclamation of intimacy, as it were, was doubtless premeditated, and had its special object, yet Evgenie Pavlovitch at first seemed to intend to make no show of observing either his tormentor or her words. But Nastasia's communication struck him with the force of a thunderclap. On hearing of his uncle's death he suddenly grew as white as a sheet, and turned towards his informant. At this moment, Lizabetha Prokofievna rose swiftly from her seat, beckoned her companions, and left the place almost at a run. Only the prince stopped behind for a moment, as though in indecision; and Evgenie Pavlovitch lingered too, for he had not collected his scattered wits. But the Epanchins had not had time to get more than twenty paces away when a scandalous episode occurred. The young officer, Evgenie Pavlovitch's friend who had been conversing with Aglaya, said aloud in a great state of indignation: "She ought to be whipped--that's the only way to deal with creatures like that--she ought to be whipped!" This gentleman was a confidant of Evgenie's, and had doubtless heard of the carriage episode. Nastasia turned to him. Her eyes flashed; she rushed up to a young man standing near, whom she did not know in the least, but who happened to have in his hand a thin cane. Seizing this from him, she brought it with all her force across the face of her insulter. All this occurred, of course, in one instant of time. The young officer, forgetting himself, sprang towards her. Nastasia's followers were not by her at the moment (the elderly gentleman having disappeared altogether, and the younger man simply standing aside and roaring with laughter). In another moment, of course, the police would have been on the spot, and it would have gone hard with Nastasia Philipovna had not unexpected aid appeared. Muishkin, who was but a couple of steps away, had time to spring forward and seize the officer's arms from behind. The officer, tearing himself from the prince's grasp, pushed him so violently backwards that he staggered a few steps and then subsided into a chair. But there were other defenders for Nastasia on the spot by this time. The gentleman known as the "boxer" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 216 now confronted the enraged officer. "Keller is my name, sir; ex-lieutenant," he said, very loud. "If you will accept me as champion of the fair sex, I am at your disposal. English boxing has no secrets from me. I sympathize with you for the insult you have received, but I can't permit you to raise your hand against a woman in public. If you prefer to meet me--as would be more fitting to your rank--in some other manner, of course you understand me, captain." But the young officer had recovered himself, and was no longer listening. At this moment Rogojin appeared, elbowing through the crowd; he took Nastasia's hand, drew it through his arm, and quickly led her away. He appeared to be terribly excited; he was trembling all over, and was as pale as a corpse. As he carried Nastasia off, he turned and grinned horribly in the officer's face, and with low malice observed: "Tfu! look what the fellow got! Look at the blood on his cheek! Ha, ha!" Recollecting himself, however, and seeing at a glance the sort of people he had to deal with, the officer turned his back on both his opponents, and courteously, but concealing his face with his handkerchief, approached the prince, who was now rising from the chair into which he had fallen. "Prince Muishkin, I believe? The gentleman to whom I had the honour of being introduced?" "She is mad, insane--I assure you, she is mad," replied the prince in trembling tones, holding out both his hands mechanically towards the officer. "I cannot boast of any such knowledge, of course, but I wished to know your name." He bowed and retired without waiting for an answer. Five seconds after the disappearance of the last actor in this scene, the police arrived. The whole episode had not lasted more than a couple of minutes. Some of the spectators had risen from their places, and departed altogether; some merely exchanged their seats for others a little further off; some were delighted with the occurrence, and talked and laughed over it for a long time. In a word, the incident closed as such incidents do, and the band began to play again. The prince walked away after the Epanchin party. Had he thought of looking round to the left after he had been pushed so unceremoniously into the chair, he would have observed Aglaya standing some twenty yards away. She had stayed to watch the scandalous scene in spite of her mother's and sisters' anxious cries to her to come away. Prince S. ran up to her and persuaded her, at last, to come home with them. Lizabetha Prokofievna saw that she returned in such a state of agitation that it was doubtful whether she had even heard their calls. But only a couple of minutes later, when they had reached the park, Aglaya suddenly remarked, in her usual calm, indifferent voice: "I wanted to see how the farce would end." III. THE occurrence at the Vauxhall had filled both mother and daughters with something like horror. In their excitement Lizabetha Prokofievna and the girls were nearly running all the way home. In her opinion there was so much disclosed and laid bare by the episode, that, in spite of the chaotic condition of her mind, she was able to feel more or less decided on certain points which, up to now, had been in a by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 217 cloudy condition. However, one and all of the party realized that something important had happened, and that, perhaps fortunately enough, something which had hitherto been enveloped in the obscurity of guess-work had now begun to come forth a little from the mists. In spite of Prince S.'s assurances and explanations, Evgenie Pavlovitch's real character and position were at last coming to light. He was publicly convicted of intimacy with "that creature." So thought Lizabetha Prokofievna and her two elder daughters. But the real upshot of the business was that the number of riddles to be solved was augmented. The two girls, though rather irritated at their mother's exaggerated alarm and haste to depart from the scene, had been unwilling to worry her at first with questions. Besides, they could not help thinking that their sister Aglaya probably knew more about the whole matter than both they and their mother put together. Prince S. looked as black as night, and was silent and moody. Mrs. Epanchin did not say a word to him all the way home, and he did not seem to observe the fact. Adelaida tried to pump him a little by asking, "who was the uncle they were talking about, and what was it that had happened in Petersburg?" But he had merely muttered something disconnected about "making inquiries," and that "of course it was all nonsense." "Oh, of course," replied Adelaida, and asked no more questions. Aglaya, too, was very quiet; and the only remark she made on the way home was that they were "walking much too fast to be pleasant." Once she turned and observed the prince hurrying after them. Noticing his anxiety to catch them up, she smiled ironically, and then looked back no more. At length, just as they neared the house, General Epanchin came out and met them; he had only just arrived from town. His first word was to inquire after Evgenie Pavlovitch. But Lizabetha stalked past him, and neither looked at him nor answered his question. He immediately judged from the faces of his daughters and Prince S. that there was a thunderstorm brewing, and he himself already bore evidences of unusual perturbation of mind. He immediately button-holed Prince S., and standing at the front door, engaged in a whispered conversation with him. By the troubled aspect of both of them, when they entered the house, and approached Mrs. Epanchin, it was evident that they had been discussing very disturbing news. Little by little the family gathered together upstairs in Lizabetha Prokofievna's apartments, and Prince Muishkin found himself alone on the verandah when he arrived. He settled himself in a corner and sat waiting, though he knew not what he expected. It never struck him that he had better go away, with all this disturbance in the house. He seemed to have forgotten all the world, and to be ready to sit on where he was for years on end. From upstairs he caught sounds of excited conversation every now and then. He could not say how long he sat there. It grew late and became quite dark. Suddenly Aglaya entered the verandah. She seemed to be quite calm, though a little pale. Observing the prince, whom she evidently did not expect to see there, alone in the corner, she smiled, and approached him: "What are you doing there?" she asked. The prince muttered something, blushed, and jumped up; but Aglaya immediately sat down beside him; so he by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 218 reseated himself. She looked suddenly, but attentively into his face, then at the window, as though thinking of something else, and then again at him. "Perhaps she wants to laugh at me," thought the prince, "but no; for if she did she certainly would do so." "Would you like some tea? I'll order some," she said, after a minute or two of silence. "N-no thanks, I don't know--" "Don't know! How can you not know? By-the-by, look here--if someone were to challenge you to a duel, what should you do? I wished to ask you this--some time ago--" "Why? Nobody would ever challenge me to a duel!" "But if they were to, would you be dreadfully frightened?" "I dare say I should be--much alarmed!" "Seriously? Then are you a coward?" "N-no!--I don't think so. A coward is a man who is afraid and runs away; the man who is frightened but does not run away, is not quite a coward," said the prince with a smile, after a moment's thought. "And you wouldn't run away?" "No--I don't think I should run away," replied the prince, laughing outright at last at Aglaya's questions. "Though I am a woman, I should certainly not run away for anything," said Aglaya, in a slightly pained voice. "However, I see you are laughing at me and twisting your face up as usual in order to make yourself look more interesting. Now tell me, they generally shoot at twenty paces, don't they? At ten, sometimes? I suppose if at ten they must be either wounded or killed, mustn't they?" "I don't think they often kill each other at duels." "They killed Pushkin that way." "That may have been an accident." "Not a bit of it; it was a duel to the death, and he was killed." "The bullet struck so low down that probably his antagonist would never have aimed at that part of him--people never do; he would have aimed at his chest or head; so that probably the bullet hit him accidentally. I have been told this by competent authorities." "Well, a soldier once told me that they were always ordered to aim at the middle of the body. So you see they don't aim at the chest or head; they aim lower on purpose. I asked some officer about this afterwards, and he said it was perfectly true." "That is probably when they fire from a long distance." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 219 "Can you shoot at all?" "No, I have never shot in my life." "Can't you even load a pistol?" "No! That is, I understand how it's done, of course, but I have never done it." "Then, you don't know how, for it is a matter that needs practice. Now listen and learn; in the first place buy good powder, not damp (they say it mustn't be at all damp, but very dry), some fine kind it is--you must ask for PISTOL powder, not the stuff they load cannons with. They say one makes the bullets oneself, somehow or other. Have you got a pistol?" "No--and I don't want one," said the prince, laughing. "Oh, what NONSENSE! You must buy one. French or English are the best, they say. Then take a little powder, about a thimbleful, or perhaps two, and pour it into the barrel. Better put plenty. Then push in a bit of felt (it MUST be felt, for some reason or other); you can easily get a bit off some old mattress, or off a door; it's used to keep the cold out. Well, when you have pushed the felt down, put the bullet in; do you hear now? The bullet last and the powder first, not the other way, or the pistol won't shoot. What are you laughing at? I wish you to buy a pistol and practise every day, and you must learn to hit a mark for CERTAIN; will you?" The prince only laughed. Aglaya stamped her foot with annoyance. Her serious air, however, during this conversation had surprised him considerably. He had a feeling that he ought to be asking her something, that there was something he wanted to find out far more important than how to load a pistol; but his thoughts had all scattered, and he was only aware that she was sitting by, him, and talking to him, and that he was looking at her; as to what she happened to be saying to him, that did not matter in the least. The general now appeared on the verandah, coming from upstairs. He was on his way out, with an expression of determination on his face, and of preoccupation and worry also. "Ah! Lef Nicolaievitch, it's you, is it? Where are you off to now?" he asked, oblivious of the fact that the prince had not showed the least sign of moving. "Come along with me; I want to say a word or two to you." "Au revoir, then!" said Aglaya, holding out her hand to the prince. It was quite dark now, and Muishkin could not see her face clearly, but a minute or two later, when he and the general had left the villa, he suddenly flushed up, and squeezed his right hand tightly. It appeared that he and the general were going in the same direction. In spite of the lateness of the hour, the general was hurrying away to talk to someone upon some important subject. Meanwhile he talked incessantly but disconnectedly to the prince, and continually brought in the name of Lizabetha Prokofievna. If the prince had been in a condition to pay more attention to what the general was saying, he would have discovered that the latter was desirous of drawing some information out of him, or indeed of asking him some question outright; but that he could not make up his mind to come to the point. Muishkin was so absent, that from the very first he could not attend to a word the other was saying; and when the general suddenly stopped before him with some excited question, he was obliged to confess, ignominiously, that he did not know in the least what he had been talking about. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 220 The general shrugged his shoulders. "How strange everyone, yourself included, has become of late," said he. "I was telling you that I cannot in the least understand Lizabetha Prokofievna's ideas and agitations. She is in hysterics up there, and moans and says that we have been 'shamed and disgraced.' How? Why? When? By whom? I confess that I am very much to blame myself; I do not conceal the fact; but the conduct, the outrageous behaviour of this woman, must really be kept within limits, by the police if necessary, and I am just on my way now to talk the question over and make some arrangements. It can all be managed quietly and gently, even kindly, and without the slightest fuss or scandal. I foresee that the future is pregnant with events, and that there is much that needs explanation. There is intrigue in the wind; but if on one side nothing is known, on the other side nothing will be explained. If I have heard nothing about it, nor have YOU, nor HE, nor SHE-- who HAS heard about it, I should like to know? How CAN all this be explained except by the fact that half of it is mirage or moonshine, or some hallucination of that sort?" "SHE is insane," muttered the prince, suddenly recollecting all that had passed, with a spasm of pain at his heart. "I too had that idea, and I slept in peace. But now I see that their opinion is more correct. I do not believe in the theory of madness! The woman has no common sense; but she is not only not insane, she is artful to a degree. Her outburst of this evening about Evgenie's uncle proves that conclusively. It was VILLAINOUS, simply jesuitical, and it was all for some special purpose." "What about Evgenie's uncle?" "My goodness, Lef Nicolaievitch, why, you can't have heard a single word I said! Look at me, I'm still trembling all over with the dreadful shock! It is that that kept me in town so late. Evgenie Pavlovitch's uncle--" Well?" cried the prince. "Shot himself this morning, at seven o'clock. A respected, eminent old man of seventy; and exactly point for point as she described it; a sum of money, a considerable sum of government money, missing!" "Why, how could she--" "What, know of it? Ha, ha, ha! Why, there was a whole crowd round her the moment she appeared on the scenes here. You know what sort of people surround her nowadays, and solicit the honour of her 'acquaintance.' Of course she might easily have heard the news from someone coming from town. All Petersburg, if not all Pavlofsk, knows it by now. Look at the slyness of her observation about Evgenie's uniform! I mean, her remark that he had retired just in time! There's a venomous hint for you, if you like! No, no! there's no insanity there! Of course I refuse to believe that Evgenie Pavlovitch could have known beforehand of the catastrophe; that is, that at such and such a day at seven o'clock, and all that; but he might well have had a presentiment of the truth. And I--all of us--Prince S. and everybody, believed that he was to inherit a large fortune from this uncle. It's dreadful, horrible! Mind, I don't suspect Evgenie of anything, be quite clear on that point; but the thing is a little suspicious, nevertheless. Prince S. can't get over it. Altogether it is a very extraordinary combination of circumstances." "What suspicion attaches to Evgenie Pavlovitch?" "Oh, none at all! He has behaved very well indeed. I didn't mean to drop any sort of hint. His own fortune is intact, I believe. Lizabetha Prokofievna, of course, refuses to listen to anything. That's the worst of it all, these family catastrophes or quarrels, or whatever you like to call them. You know, prince, you are a friend of the by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 221 family, so I don't mind telling you; it now appears that Evgenie Pavlovitch proposed to Aglaya a month ago, and was refused." "Impossible!" cried the prince. "Why? Do you know anything about it? Look here," continued the general, more agitated than ever, and trembling with excitement, "maybe I have been letting the cat out of the bag too freely with you, if so, it is because you are--that sort of man, you know! Perhaps you have some special information?" "I know nothing about Evgenie Pavlovitch!" said the prince. "Nor do I! They always try to bury me underground when there's anything going on; they don't seem to reflect that it is unpleasant to a man to be treated so! I won't stand it! We have just had a terrible scene!--mind, I speak to you as I would to my own son! Aglaya laughs at her mother. Her sisters guessed about Evgenie having proposed and been rejected, and told Lizabetha. "I tell you, my dear fellow, Aglaya is such an extraordinary, such a self-willed, fantastical little creature, you wouldn't believe it! Every high quality, every brilliant trait of heart and mind, are to be found in her, and, with it all, so much caprice and mockery, such wild fancies--indeed, a little devil! She has just been laughing at her mother to her very face, and at her sisters, and at Prince S., and everybody--and of course she always laughs at me! You know I love the child--I love her even when she laughs at me, and I believe the wild little creature has a special fondness for me for that very reason. She is fonder of me than any of the others. I dare swear she has had a good laugh at YOU before now! You were having a quiet talk just now, I observed, after all the thunder and lightning upstairs. She was sitting with you just as though there had been no row at all." The prince blushed painfully in the darkness, and closed his right hand tightly, but he said nothing. "My dear good Prince Lef Nicolaievitch," began the general again, suddenly, "both I and Lizabetha Prokofievna--(who has begun to respect you once more, and me through you, goodness knows why!)-- we both love you very sincerely, and esteem you, in spite of any appearances to the contrary. But you'll admit what a riddle it must have been for us when that calm, cold, little spitfire, Aglaya--(for she stood up to her mother and answered her questions with inexpressible contempt, and mine still more so, because, like a fool, I thought it my duty to assert myself as head of the family)--when Aglaya stood up of a sudden and informed us that 'that madwoman' (strangely enough, she used exactly the same expression as you did) 'has taken it into her head to marry me to Prince Lef Nicolaievitch, and therefore is doing her best to choke Evgenie Pavlovitch off, and rid the house of him.' That's what she said. She would not give the slightest explanation; she burst out laughing, banged the door, and went away. We all stood there with our mouths open. Well, I was told afterwards of your little passage with Aglaya this afternoon, and-and--dear prince--you are a good, sensible fellow, don't be angry if I speak out--she is laughing at you, my boy! She is enjoying herself like a child, at your expense, and therefore, since she is a child, don't be angry with her, and don't think anything of it. I assure you, she is simply making a fool of you, just as she does with one and all of us out of pure lack of something better to do. Well--good-bye! You know our feelings, don't you--our sincere feelings for yourself? They are unalterable, you know, dear boy, under all circumstances, but-- Well, here we part; I must go down to the right. Rarely have I sat so uncomfortably in my saddle, as they say, as I now sit. And people talk of the charms of a country holiday!" Left to himself at the cross-roads, the prince glanced around him, quickly crossed the road towards the lighted window of a neighbouring house, and unfolded a tiny scrap of paper which he had held clasped in his right hand during the whole of his conversation with the general. He read the note in the uncertain rays that fell from the window. It was as follows: by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 222 "Tomorrow morning, I shall be at the green bench in the park at seven, and shall wait there for you. I have made up my mind to speak to you about a most important matter which closely concerns yourself. "P.S.--I trust that you will not show this note to anyone. Though I am ashamed of giving you such instructions, I feel that I must do so, considering what you are. I therefore write the words, and blush for your simple character. "P.P.S.--It is the same green bench that I showed you before. There! aren't you ashamed of yourself? I felt that it was necessary to repeat even that information." The note was written and folded anyhow, evidently in a great hurry, and probably just before Aglaya had come down to the verandah. In inexpressible agitation, amounting almost to fear, the prince slipped quickly away from the window, away from the light, like a frightened thief, but as he did so he collided violently with some gentleman who seemed to spring from the earth at his feet. "I was watching for you, prince," said the individual. "Is that you, Keller?" said the prince, in surprise. "Yes, I've been looking for you. I waited for you at the Epanchins' house, but of course I could not come in. I dogged you from behind as you walked along with the general. Well, prince, here is Keller, absolutely at your service--command him!--ready to sacrifice himself--even to die in case of need." "But-why?" "Oh, why?--Of course you'll be challenged! That was young Lieutenant Moloftsoff. I know him, or rather of him; he won't pass an insult. He will take no notice of Rogojin and myself, and, therefore, you are the only one left to account for. You'll have to pay the piper, prince. He has been asking about you, and undoubtedly his friend will call on you tomorrow--perhaps he is at your house already. If you would do me the honour to have me for a second, prince, I should be happy. That's why I have been looking for you now." "Duel! You've come to talk about a duel, too!" The prince burst out laughing, to the great astonishment of Keller. He laughed unrestrainedly, and Keller, who had been on pins and needles, and in a fever of excitement to offer himself as "second," was very near being offended. "You caught him by the arms, you know, prince. No man of proper pride can stand that sort of treatment in public." "Yes, and he gave me a fearful dig in the chest," cried the prince, still laughing. "What are we to fight about? I shall beg his pardon, that's all. But if we must fight--we'll fight! Let him have a shot at me, by all means; I should rather like it. Ha, ha, ha! I know how to load a pistol now; do you know how to load a pistol, Keller? First, you have to buy the powder, you know; it mustn't be wet, and it mustn't be that coarse stuff that they load cannons with--it must be pistol powder. Then you pour the powder in, and get hold of a bit of felt from some door, and then shove the bullet in. But don't shove the bullet in before the powder, because the thing wouldn't go off--do you hear, Keller, the thing wouldn't go off! Ha, ha, ha! Isn't that a grand reason, Keller, my friend, eh? Do you know, my dear fellow, I really must kiss you, and embrace you, this very moment. Ha, ha! How was it you so suddenly popped up in front of me as you did? Come to my house as soon as you can, and we'll have some champagne. We'll all get drunk! Do you know I have a dozen of champagne in Lebedeff's cellar? Lebedeff sold them to me the day after I arrived. I took the lot. We'll invite everybody! Are you going to do any sleeping tonight?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 223 "As much as usual, prince--why?" "Pleasant dreams then--ha, ha!" The prince crossed the road, and disappeared into the park, leaving the astonished Keller in a state of ludicrous wonder. He had never before seen the prince in such a strange condition of mind, and could not have imagined the possibility of it. "Fever, probably," he said to himself, "for the man is all nerves, and this business has been a little too much for him. He is not AFRAID, that's clear; that sort never funks! H'm! champagne! That was an interesting item of news, at all events!-- Twelve bottles! Dear me, that's a very respectable little stock indeed! I bet anything Lebedeff lent somebody money on deposit of this dozen of champagne. Hum! he's a nice fellow, is this prince! I like this sort of man. Well, I needn't be wasting time here, and if it's a case of champagne, why--there's no time like the present!" That the prince was almost in a fever was no more than the truth. He wandered about the park for a long while, and at last came to himself in a lonely avenue. He was vaguely conscious that he had already paced this particular walk--from that large, dark tree to the bench at the other end--about a hundred yards altogether--at least thirty times backwards and forwards. As to recollecting what he had been thinking of all that time, he could not. He caught himself, however, indulging in one thought which made him roar with laughter, though there was nothing really to laugh at in it; but he felt that he must laugh, and go on laughing. It struck him that the idea of the duel might not have occurred to Keller alone, but that his lesson in the art of pistol-loading might have been not altogether accidental! "Pooh! nonsense!" he said to himself, struck by another thought, of a sudden. "Why, she was immensely surprised to find me there on the verandah, and laughed and talked about TEA! And yet she had this little note in her hand, therefore she must have known that I was sitting there. So why was she surprised? Ha, ha, ha!" He pulled the note out and kissed it; then paused and reflected. "How strange it all is! how strange!" he muttered, melancholy enough now. In moments of great joy, he invariably felt a sensation of melancholy come over him--he could not tell why. He looked intently around him, and wondered why he had come here; he was very tired, so he approached the bench and sat down on it. Around him was profound silence; the music in the Vauxhall was over. The park seemed quite empty, though it was not, in reality, later than half-past eleven. It was a quiet, warm, clear night--a real Petersburg night of early June; but in the dense avenue, where he was sitting, it was almost pitch dark. If anyone had come up at this moment and told him that he was in love, passionately in love, he would have rejected the idea with astonishment, and, perhaps, with irritation. And if anyone had added that Aglaya's note was a love-letter, and that it contained an appointment to a lover's rendezvous, he would have blushed with shame for the speaker, and, probably, have challenged him to a duel. All this would have been perfectly sincere on his part. He had never for a moment entertained the idea of the possibility of this girl loving him, or even of such a thing as himself falling in love with her. The possibility of being loved himself, "a man like me," as he put it, he ranked among ridiculous suppositions. It appeared to him that it was simply a joke on Aglaya's part, if there really were anything in it at all; but that seemed to him quite natural. His preoccupation was caused by something different. As to the few words which the general had let slip about Aglaya laughing at everybody, and at himself most by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 224 of all--he entirely believed them. He did not feel the slightest sensation of offence; on the contrary, he was quite certain that it was as it should be. His whole thoughts were now as to next morning early; he would see her; he would sit by her on that little green bench, and listen to how pistols were loaded, and look at her. He wanted nothing more. The question as to what she might have to say of special interest to himself occurred to him once or twice. He did not doubt, for a moment, that she really had some such subject of conversation in store, but so very little interested in the matter was he that it did not strike him to wonder what it could be. The crunch of gravel on the path suddenly caused him to raise his head. A man, whose face it was difficult to see in the gloom, approached the bench, and sat down beside him. The prince peered into his face, and recognized the livid features of Rogojin. "I knew you'd be wandering about somewhere here. I didn't have to look for you very long," muttered the latter between his teeth. It was the first time they had met since the encounter on the staircase at the hotel. Painfully surprised as he was at this sudden apparition of Rogojin, the prince, for some little while, was unable to collect his thoughts. Rogojin, evidently, saw and understood the impression he had made; and though he seemed more or less confused at first, yet he began talking with what looked like assumed ease and freedom. However, the prince soon changed his mind on this score, and thought that there was not only no affectation of indifference, but that Rogojin was not even particularly agitated. If there were a little apparent awkwardness, it was only in his words and gestures. The man could not change his heart. "How did you--find me here?" asked the prince for the sake of saying something. "Keller told me (I found him at your place) that you were in the park. 'Of course he is!' I thought." "Why so?" asked the prince uneasily. Rogojin smiled, but did not explain. "I received your letter, Lef Nicolaievitch--what's the good of all that?--It's no use, you know. I've come to you from HER,--she bade me tell you that she must see you, she has something to say to you. She told me to find you today." "I'll come tomorrow. Now I'm going home--are you coming to my house?" "Why should I? I've given you the message.--Goodbye!" "Won't you come?" asked the prince in a gentle voice. "What an extraordinary man you are! I wonder at you!" Rogojin laughed sarcastically. "Why do you hate me so?" asked the prince, sadly. "You know yourself that all you suspected is quite unfounded. I felt you were still angry with me, though. Do you know why? Because you tried to kill me--that's why you can't shake off your wrath against me. I tell you that I only remember the Parfen Rogojin with whom I exchanged crosses, and vowed brotherhood. I wrote you this in yesterday's letter, in order that you might forget all that madness on your part, and that you might not feel called to talk about it when we met. Why do you avoid me? Why do you hold your hand back from me? I tell you again, I consider all that by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 225 has passed a delirium, an insane dream. I can understand all you did, and all you felt that day, as if it were myself. What you were then imagining was not the case, and could never be the case. Why, then, should there be anger between us?" "You don't know what anger is!" laughed Rogojin, in reply to the prince's heated words. He had moved a pace or two away, and was hiding his hands behind him. "No, it is impossible for me to come to your house again," he added slowly. "Why? Do you hate me so much as all that?" "I don't love you, Lef Nicolaievitch, and, therefore, what would be the use of my coming to see you? You are just like a child-- you want a plaything, and it must be taken out and given you--and then you don't know how to work it. You are simply repeating all you said in your letter, and what's the use? Of course I believe every word you say, and I know perfectly well that you neither did or ever can deceive me in any way, and yet, I don't love you. You write that you've forgotten everything, and only remember your brother Parfen, with whom you exchanged crosses, and that you don't remember anything about the Rogojin who aimed a knife at your throat. What do you know about my feelings, eh?" (Rogojin laughed disagreeably.) "Here you are holding out your brotherly forgiveness to me for a thing that I have perhaps never repented of in the slightest degree. I did not think of it again all that evening; all my thoughts were centred on something else--" "Not think of it again? Of course you didn't!" cried the prince. "And I dare swear that you came straight away down here to Pavlofsk to listen to the music and dog her about in the crowd, and stare at her, just as you did today. There's nothing surprising in that! If you hadn't been in that condition of mind that you could think of nothing but one subject, you would, probably, never have raised your knife against me. I had a presentiment of what you would do, that day, ever since I saw you first in the morning. Do you know yourself what you looked like? I knew you would try to murder me even at the very moment when we exchanged crosses. What did you take me to your mother for? Did you think to stay your hand by doing so? Perhaps you did not put your thoughts into words, but you and I were thinking the same thing, or feeling the same thing looming over us, at the same moment. What should you think of me now if you had not raised your knife to me--the knife which God averted from my throat? I would have been guilty of suspecting you all the same--and you would have intended the murder all the same; therefore we should have been mutually guilty in any case. Come, don't frown; you needn't laugh at me, either. You say you haven't 'repented.' Repented! You probably couldn't, if you were to try; you dislike me too much for that. Why, if I were an angel of light, and as innocent before you as a babe, you would still loathe me if you believed that SHE loved me, instead of loving yourself. That's jealousy--that is the real jealousy. "But do you know what I have been thinking out during this last week, Parfen? I'll tell you. What if she loves you now better than anyone? And what if she torments you BECAUSE she loves you, and in proportion to her love for you, so she torments you the more? She won't tell you this, of course; you must have eyes to see. Why do you suppose she consents to marry you? She must have a reason, and that reason she will tell you some day. Some women desire the kind of love you give her, and she is probably one of these. Your love and your wild nature impress her. Do you know that a woman is capable of driving a man crazy almost, with her cruelties and mockeries, and feels not one single pang of regret, because she looks at him and says to herself, 'There! I'll torment this man nearly into his grave, and then, oh! how I'll compensate him for it all with my love!'" Rogojin listened to the end, and then burst out laughing: "Why, prince, I declare you must have had a taste of this sort of thing yourself--haven't you? I have heard tell of something of the kind, you know; is it true?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 226 "What? What can you have heard?" said the prince, stammering. Rogojin continued to laugh loudly. He had listened to the prince's speech with curiosity and some satisfaction. The speaker's impulsive warmth had surprised and even comforted him. "Why, I've not only heard of it; I see it for myself," he said. "When have you ever spoken like that before? It wasn't like yourself, prince. Why, if I hadn't heard this report about you, I should never have come all this way into the park--at midnight, too!" "I don't understand you in the least, Parfen." "Oh, SHE told me all about it long ago, and tonight I saw for myself. I saw you at the music, you know, and whom you were sitting with. She swore to me yesterday, and again today, that you are madly in love with Aglaya Ivanovna. But that's all the same to me, prince, and it's not my affair at all; for if you have ceased to love HER, SHE has not ceased to love YOU. You know, of course, that she wants to marry you to that girl? She's sworn to it! Ha, ha! She says to me, 'Until then I won't marry you. When they go to church, we'll go too-and not before.' What on earth does she mean by it? I don't know, and I never did. Either she loves you without limits or--yet, if she loves you, why does she wish to marry you to another girl? She says, 'I want to see him happy,' which is to say--she loves you." "I wrote, and I say to you once more, that she is not in her right mind," said the prince, who had listened with anguish to what Rogojin said. "Goodness knows--you may be wrong there! At all events, she named the day this evening, as we left the gardens. 'In three weeks,' says she, 'and perhaps sooner, we shall be married.' She swore to it, took off her cross and kissed it. So it all depends upon you now, prince, You see! Ha, ha!" "That's all madness. What you say about me, Parfen, never can and never will be. Tomorrow, I shall come and see you--" "How can she be mad," Rogojin interrupted, "when she is sane enough for other people and only mad for you? How can she write letters to HER, if she's mad? If she were insane they would observe it in her letters." "What letters?" said the prince, alarmed. "She writes to HER--and the girl reads the letters. Haven't you heard?--You are sure to hear; she's sure to show you the letters herself." "I won't believe this!" cried the prince. "Why, prince, you've only gone a few steps along this road, I perceive. You are evidently a mere beginner. Wait a bit! Before long, you'll have your own detectives, you'll watch day and night, and you'll know every little thing that goes on there-- that is, if--" "Drop that subject, Rogojin, and never mention it again. And listen: as I have sat here, and talked, and listened, it has suddenly struck me that tomorrow is my birthday. It must be about twelve o'clock, now; come home with me--do, and we'll see the day in! We'll have some wine, and you shall wish me--I don't know what--but you, especially you, must wish me a good wish, and I shall wish you full happiness in return. Otherwise, hand me my cross back again. You didn't return it to me next day. Haven't you got it on now?" "Yes, I have," said Rogojin. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 227 "Come along, then. I don't wish to meet my new year without you-- my new life, I should say, for a new life is beginning for me. Did you know, Parfen, that a new life had begun for me?" "I see for myself that it is so--and I shall tell HER. But you are not quite yourself, Lef Nicolaievitch." IV. THE prince observed with great surprise, as he approached his villa, accompanied by Rogojin, that a large number of people were assembled on his verandah, which was brilliantly lighted up. The company seemed merry and were noisily laughing and talking--even quarrelling, to judge from the sounds. At all events they were clearly enjoying themselves, and the prince observed further on closer investigation--that all had been drinking champagne. To judge from the lively condition of some of the party, it was to be supposed that a considerable quantity of champagne had been consumed already. All the guests were known to the prince; but the curious part of the matter was that they had all arrived on the same evening, as though with one accord, although he had only himself recollected the fact that it was his birthday a few moments since. "You must have told somebody you were going to trot out the champagne, and that's why they are all come!" muttered Rogojin, as the two entered the verandah. "We know all about that! You've only to whistle and they come up in shoals!" he continued, almost angrily. He was doubtless thinking of his own late experiences with his boon companions. All surrounded the prince with exclamations of welcome, and, on hearing that it was his birthday, with cries of congratulation and delight; many of them were very noisy. The presence of certain of those in the room surprised the prince vastly, but the guest whose advent filled him with the greatest wonder--almost amounting to alarm--was Evgenie Pavlovitch. The prince could not believe his eyes when he beheld the latter, and could not help thinking that something was wrong. Lebedeff ran up promptly to explain the arrival of all these gentlemen. He was himself somewhat intoxicated, but the prince gathered from his long-winded periods that the party had assembled quite naturally, and accidentally. First of all Hippolyte had arrived, early in the evening, and feeling decidedly better, had determined to await the prince on the verandah. There Lebedeff had joined him, and his household had followed--that is, his daughters and General Ivolgin. Burdovsky had brought Hippolyte, and stayed on with him. Gania and Ptitsin had dropped in accidentally later on; then came Keller, and he and Colia insisted on having champagne. Evgenie Pavlovitch had only dropped in half an hour or so ago. Lebedeff had served the champagne readily. "My own though, prince, my own, mind," he said, "and there'll be some supper later on; my daughter is getting it ready now. Come and sit down, prince, we are all waiting for you, we want you with us. Fancy what we have been discussing! You know the question, 'to be or not to be,'--out of Hamlet! A contemporary theme! Quite up-to-date! Mr. Hippolyte has been eloquent to a degree. He won't go to bed, but he has only drunk a little champagne, and that can't do him any harm. Come along, prince, and settle the question. Everyone is waiting for you, sighing for the light of your luminous intelligence..." The prince noticed the sweet, welcoming look on Vera Lebedeff's face, as she made her way towards him through the crowd. He held out his hand to her. She took it, blushing with delight, and wished him "a happy life from that day forward." Then she ran off to the kitchen, where. her presence was necessary to help in the preparations for supper. Before the prince's arrival she had spent some time on the terrace, listening eagerly to the conversation, though the visitors, mostly under the influence of wine, were discussing abstract subjects far by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 228 beyond her comprehension. In the next room her younger sister lay on a wooden chest, sound asleep, with her mouth wide open; but the boy, Lebedeff's son, had taken up his position close beside Colia and Hippolyte, his face lit up with interest in the conversation of his father and the rest, to which he would willingly have listened for ten hours at a stretch. "I have waited for you on purpose, and am very glad to see you arrive so happy," said Hippolyte, when the prince came forward to press his hand, immediately after greeting Vera. "And how do you know that I am 'so happy'? "I can see it by your face! Say 'how do you do' to the others, and come and sit down here, quick--I've been waiting for you!" he added, accentuating the fact that he had waited. On the prince's asking, "Will it not be injurious to you to sit out so late?" he replied that he could not believe that he had thought himself dying three days or so ago, for he never had felt better than this evening. Burdovsky next jumped up and explained that he had come in by accident, having escorted Hippolyte from town. He murmured that he was glad he had "written nonsense" in his letter, and then pressed the prince's hand warmly and sat down again. The prince approached Evgenie Pavlovitch last of all. The latter immediately took his arm. "I have a couple of words to say to you," he began, "and those on a very important matter; let's go aside for a minute or two." "Just a couple of words!" whispered another voice in the prince's other ear, and another hand took his other arm. Muishkin turned, and to his great surprise observed a red, flushed face and a droll-looking figure which he recognized at once as that of Ferdishenko. Goodness knows where he had turned up from! "Do you remember Ferdishenko?" he asked. "Where have you dropped from?" cried the prince. "He is sorry for his sins now, prince," cried Keller. "He did not want to let you know he was here; he was hidden over there in the corner,--but he repents now, he feels his guilt." "Why, what has he done?" "I met him outside and brought him in--he's a gentleman who doesn't often allow his friends to see him, of late--but he's sorry now." "Delighted, I'm sure!--I'll come back directly, gentlemen,--sit down there with the others, please,--excuse me one moment," said the host, getting away with difficulty in order to follow Evgenie. "You are very gay here," began the latter, "and I have had quite a pleasant half-hour while I waited for you. Now then, my dear Lef Nicolaievitch, this is what's the matter. I've arranged it all with Moloftsoff, and have just come in to relieve your mind on that score. You need be under no apprehensions. He was very sensible, as he should be, of course, for I think he was entirely to blame himself." "What Moloftsoff?" "The young fellow whose arms you held, don't you know? He was so wild with you that he was going to send a friend to you tomorrow morning." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 229 "What nonsense!" "Of course it is nonsense, and in nonsense it would have ended, doubtless; but you know these fellows, they--" "Excuse me, but I think you must have something else that you wished to speak about, Evgenie Pavlovitch?" "Of course, I have!" said the other, laughing. "You see, my dear fellow, tomorrow, very early in the morning, I must be off to town about this unfortunate business(my uncle, you know!). Just imagine, my dear sir, it is all true--word for word--and, of course, everybody knew it excepting myself. All this has been such a blow to me that I have not managed to call in at the Epanchins'. Tomorrow I shall not see them either, because I shall be in town. I may not be here for three days or more; in a word, my affairs are a little out of gear. But though my town business is, of course, most pressing, still I determined not to go away until I had seen you, and had a clear understanding with you upon certain points; and that without loss of time. I will wait now, if you will allow me, until the company departs; I may just as well, for I have nowhere else to go to, and I shall certainly not do any sleeping tonight; I'm far too excited. And finally, I must confess that, though I know it is bad form to pursue a man in this way, I have come to beg your friendship, my dear prince. You are an unusual sort of a person; you don't lie at every step, as some men do; in fact, you don't lie at all, and there is a matter in which I need a true and sincere friend, for I really may claim to be among the number of bona fide unfortunates just now." He laughed again. "But the trouble is," said the prince, after a slight pause for reflection, "that goodness only knows when this party will break up. Hadn't we better stroll into the park? I'll excuse myself, there's no danger of their going away." "No, no! I have my reasons for wishing them not to suspect us of being engaged in any specially important conversation. There are gentry present who are a little too much interested in us. You are not aware of that perhaps, prince? It will be a great deal better if they see that we are friendly just in an ordinary way. They'll all go in a couple of hours, and then I'll ask you to give me twenty minutes-half an hour at most." "By all means! I assure you I am delighted--you need not have entered into all these explanations. As for your remarks about friendship with me--thanks, very much indeed. You must excuse my being a little absent this evening. Do you know, I cannot somehow be attentive to anything just now?" "I see, I see," said Evgenie, smiling gently. His mirth seemed very near the surface this evening. "What do you see?" said the prince, startled. "I don't want you to suspect that I have simply come here to deceive you and pump information out of you!" said Evgenie, still smiling, and without making any direct reply to the question. "Oh, but I haven't the slightest doubt that you did come to pump me," said the prince, laughing himself, at last; "and I dare say you are quite prepared to deceive me too, so far as that goes. But what of that? I'm not afraid of you; besides, you'll hardly believe it, I feel as though I really didn't care a scrap one way or the other, just now!--And-and-and as you are a capital fellow, I am convinced of that, I dare say we really shall end by being good friends. I like you very much Evgenie Pavlovitch; I consider you a very good fellow indeed." "Well, in any case, you are a most delightful man to have to deal with, be the business what it may," concluded Evgenie. "Come along now, I'll drink a glass to your health. I'm charmed to have entered into alliance with you. By-the-by," he added suddenly, has this young Hippolyte come down to stay with you by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 230 "Yes." "He's not going to die at once, I should think, is he?" "Why?" "Oh, I don't know. I've been half an hour here with him, and he--" Hippolyte had been waiting for the prince all this time, and had never ceased looking at him and Evgenie Pavlovitch as they conversed in the corner. He became much excited when they approached the table once more. He was disturbed in his mind, it seemed; perspiration stood in large drops on his forehead; in his gleaming eyes it was easy to read impatience and agitation; his gaze wandered from face to face of those present, and from object to object in the room, apparently without aim. He had taken a part, and an animated one, in the noisy conversation of the company; but his animation was clearly the outcome of fever. His talk was almost incoherent; he would break off in the middle of a sentence which he had begun with great interest, and forget what he had been saying. The prince discovered to his dismay that Hippolyte had been allowed to drink two large glasses of champagne; the one now standing by him being the third. All this he found out afterwards; at the moment he did not notice anything, very particularly. "Do you know I am specially glad that today is your birthday!" cried Hippolyte. "Why?" "You'll soon see. D'you know I had a feeling that there would be a lot of people here tonight? It's not the first time that my presentiments have been fulfilled. I wish I had known it was your birthday, I'd have brought you a present--perhaps I have got a present for you! Who knows? Ha, ha! How long is it now before daylight?" "Not a couple of hours," said Ptitsin, looking at his watch. What's the good of daylight now? One can read all night in the open air without it," said someone. "The good of it! Well, I want just to see a ray of the sun," said Hippolyte. Can one drink to the sun's health, do you think, prince?" "Oh, I dare say one can; but you had better be calm and lie down, Hippolyte--that's much more important. "You are always preaching about resting; you are a regular nurse to me, prince. As soon as the sun begins to 'resound' in the sky --what poet said that? 'The sun resounded in the sky.' It is beautiful, though there's no sense in it!--then we will go to bed. Lebedeff, tell me, is the sun the source of life? What does the source, or 'spring,' of life really mean in the Apocalypse? You have heard of the 'Star that is called Wormwood,' prince?" "I have heard that Lebedeff explains it as the railroads that cover Europe like a net." Everybody laughed, and Lebedeff got up abruptly. "No! Allow me, that is not what we are discussing!" he cried, waving his hand to impose silence. "Allow me! With these gentlemen ... all these gentlemen," he added, suddenly addressing the prince, "on certain points ... that is ..." He thumped the table repeatedly, and the laughter increased. Lebedeff was in his usual evening condition, and had just ended a long and scientific argument, which had left him excited and irritable. On such occasions he was apt to evince a supreme contempt for his opponents. "It is not right! Half an hour ago, prince, it was agreed among us that no one should interrupt, no one should laugh, that each person was to express his thoughts freely; and then at the end, when everyone had spoken, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 231 objections might be made, even by the atheists. We chose the general as president. Now without some such rule and order, anyone might be shouted down, even in the loftiest and most profound thought. . . ." "Go on! Go on! Nobody is going to interrupt you!" cried several voices. "Speak, but keep to the point!" "What is this 'star'?" asked another. I have no idea," replied General Ivolgin, who presided with much gravity. "I love these arguments, prince," said Keller, also more than half intoxicated, moving restlessly in his chair. "Scientific and political." Then, turning suddenly towards Evgenie Pavlovitch, who was seated near him: "Do you know, I simply adore reading the accounts of the debates in the English parliament. Not that the discussions themselves interest me; I am not a politician, you know; but it delights me to see how they address each other 'the noble lord who agrees with me,' 'my honourable opponent who astonished Europe with his proposal,' 'the noble viscount sitting opposite'--all these expressions, all this parliamentarism of a free people, has an enormous attraction for me. It fascinates me, prince. I have always been an artist in the depths of my soul, I assure you, Evgenie Pavlovitch." "Do you mean to say," cried Gania, from the other corner, "do you mean to say that railways are accursed inventions, that they are a source of ruin to humanity, a poison poured upon the earth to corrupt the springs of life?" Gavrila Ardalionovitch was in high spirits that evening, and it seemed to the prince that his gaiety was mingled with triumph. Of course he was only joking with Lebedeff, meaning to egg him on, but he grew excited himself at the same time. "Not the railways, oh dear, no!" replied Lebedeff, with a mixture of violent anger and extreme enjoyment. "Considered alone, the railways will not pollute the springs of life, but as a whole they are accursed. The whole tendency of our latest centuries, in its scientific and materialistic aspect, is most probably accursed." "Is it certainly accursed? ... or do you only mean it might be? That is an important point," said Evgenie Pavlovitch. "It is accursed, certainly accursed!" replied the clerk, vehemently. "Don't go so fast, Lebedeff; you are much milder in the morning," said Ptitsin, smiling. "But, on the other hand, more frank in the evening! In the evening sincere and frank," repeated Lebedeff, earnestly. "More candid, more exact, more honest, more honourable, and ... although I may show you my weak side, I challenge you all; you atheists, for instance! How are you going to save the world? How find a straight road of progress, you men of science, of industry, of cooperation, of trades unions, and all the rest? How are you going to save it, I say? By what? By credit? What is credit? To what will credit lead you?" "You are too inquisitive," remarked Evgenie Pavlovitch. "Well, anyone who does not interest himself in questions such as this is, in my opinion, a mere fashionable dummy." "But it will lead at least to solidarity, and balance of interests," said Ptitsin. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 232 "You will reach that with nothing to help you but credit? Without recourse to any moral principle, having for your foundation only individual selfishness, and the satisfaction of material desires? Universal peace, and the happiness of mankind as a whole, being the result! Is it really so that I may understand you, sir?" "But the universal necessity of living, of drinking, of eating-- in short, the whole scientific conviction that this necessity can only be satisfied by universal co-operation and the solidarity of interests--is, it seems to me, a strong enough idea to serve as a basis, so to speak, and a 'spring of life,' for humanity in future centuries," said Gavrila Ardalionovitch, now thoroughly roused. "The necessity of eating and drinking, that is to say, solely the instinct of self-preservation..." "Is not that enough? The instinct of self-preservation is the normal law of humanity..." "Who told you that?" broke in Evgenie Pavlovitch. "It is a law, doubtless, but a law neither more nor less normal than that of destruction, even self-destruction. Is it possible that the whole normal law of humanity is contained in this sentiment of self-preservation?" "Ah!" cried Hippolyte, turning towards Evgenie Pavlovitch, and looking at him with a queer sort of curiosity. Then seeing that Radomski was laughing, he began to laugh himself, nudged Colia, who was sitting beside him, with his elbow, and again asked what time it was. He even pulled Colia's silver watch out of his hand, and looked at it eagerly. Then, as if he had forgotten everything, he stretched himself out on the sofa, put his hands behind his head, and looked up at the sky. After a minute or two he got up and came back to the table to listen to Lebedeff's outpourings, as the latter passionately commentated on Evgenie Pavlovitch's paradox. "That is an artful and traitorous idea. A smart notion," vociferated the clerk, "thrown out as an apple of discord. But it is just. You are a scoffer, a man of the world, a cavalry officer, and, though not without brains, you do not realize how profound is your thought, nor how true. Yes, the laws of self- preservation and of self-destruction are equally powerful in this world. The devil will hold his empire over humanity until a limit of time which is still unknown. You laugh? You do not believe in the devil? Scepticism as to the devil is a French idea, and it is also a frivolous idea. Do you know who the devil is? Do you know his name? Although you don't know his name you make a mockery of his form, following the example of Voltaire. You sneer at his hoofs, at his tail, at his horns--all of them the produce of your imagination! In reality the devil is a great and terrible spirit, with neither hoofs, nor tail, nor horns; it is you who have endowed him with these attributes! But ... he is not the question just now!" "How do you know he is not the question now?" cried Hippolyte, laughing hysterically. "Another excellent idea, and worth considering!" replied Lebedeff. "But, again, that is not the question. The question at this moment is whether we have not weakened 'the springs of life' by the extension ..." "Of railways?" put in Colia eagerly. "Not railways, properly speaking, presumptuous youth, but the general tendency of which railways may be considered as the outward expression and symbol. We hurry and push and hustle, for the good of humanity! 'The world is becoming too noisy, too commercial!' groans some solitary thinker. 'Undoubtedly it is, but the noise of waggons bearing bread to starving humanity is of more value than tranquillity of soul,' replies another triumphantly, and passes on with an air of pride. As for me, I don't believe in these waggons bringing bread to humanity. For, founded on no moral principle, these may well, even in the act of carrying bread to humanity, coldly exclude a considerable portion of humanity from enjoying it; that has been seen more than once. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 233 "What, these waggons may coldly exclude?" repeated someone. "That has been seen already," continued Lebedeff, not deigning to notice the interruption. "Malthus was a friend of humanity, but, with ill-founded moral principles, the friend of humanity is the devourer of humanity, without mentioning his pride; for, touch the vanity of one of these numberless philanthropists, and to avenge his self-esteem, he will be ready at once to set fire to the whole globe; and to tell the truth, we are all more or less like that. I, perhaps, might be the first to set a light to the fuel, and then run away. But, again, I must repeat, that is not the question." "What is it then, for goodness' sake?" "He is boring us!" "The question is connected with the following anecdote of past times; for I am obliged to relate a story. In our times, and in our country, which I hope you love as much as I do, for as far as I am concerned, I am ready to shed the last drop of my blood... "Go on! Go on!" "In our dear country, as indeed in the whole of Europe, a famine visits humanity about four times a century, as far as I can remember; once in every twenty-five years. I won't swear to this being the exact figure, but anyhow they have become comparatively rare." "Comparatively to what?" "To the twelfth century, and those immediately preceding and following it. We are told by historians that widespread famines occurred in those days every two or three years, and such was the condition of things that men actually had recourse to cannibalism, in secret, of course. One of these cannibals, who had reached a good age, declared of his own free will that during the course of his long and miserable life he had personally killed and eaten, in the most profound secrecy, sixty monks, not to mention several children; the number of the latter he thought was about six, an insignificant total when compared with the enormous mass of ecclesiastics consumed by him. As to adults, laymen that is to say, he had never touched them." The president joined in the general outcry. "That's impossible!" said he in an aggrieved tone. "I am often discussing subjects of this nature with him, gentlemen, but for the most part he talks nonsense enough to make one deaf: this story has no pretence of being true." "General, remember the siege of Kars! And you, gentlemen, I assure you my anecdote is the naked truth. I may remark that reality, although it is governed by invariable law, has at times a resemblance to falsehood. In fact, the truer a thing is the less true it sounds." "But could anyone possibly eat sixty monks?" objected the scoffing listeners. "It is quite clear that he did not eat them all at once, but in a space of fifteen or twenty years: from that point of view the thing is comprehensible and natural..." "Natural?" "And natural," repeated Lebedeff with pedantic obstinacy. "Besides, a Catholic monk is by nature excessively curious; it would be quite easy therefore to entice him into a wood, or some secret place, on false pretences, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 234 and there to deal with him as said. But I do not dispute in the least that the number of persons consumed appears to denote a spice of greediness." "It is perhaps true, gentlemen," said the prince, quietly. He had been listening in silence up to that moment without taking part in the conversation, but laughing heartily with the others from time to time. Evidently he was delighted to see that everybody was amused, that everybody was talking at once, and even that everybody was drinking. It seemed as if he were not intending to speak at all, when suddenly he intervened in such a serious voice that everyone looked at him with interest. "It is true that there were frequent famines at that time, gentlemen. I have often heard of them, though I do not know much history. But it seems to me that it must have been so. When I was in Switzerland I used to look with astonishment at the many ruins of feudal castles perched on the top of steep and rocky heights, half a mile at least above sea-level, so that to reach them one had to climb many miles of stony tracks. A castle, as you know, is, a kind of mountain of stones--a dreadful, almost an impossible, labour! Doubtless the builders were all poor men, vassals, and had to pay heavy taxes, and to keep up the priesthood. How, then, could they provide for themselves, and when had they time to plough and sow their fields? The greater number must, literally, have died of starvation. I have sometimes asked myself how it was that these communities were not utterly swept off the face of the earth, and how they could possibly survive. Lebedeff is not mistaken, in my opinion, when he says that there were cannibals in those days, perhaps in considerable numbers; but I do not understand why he should have dragged in the monks, nor what he means by that." "It is undoubtedly because, in the twelfth century, monks were the only people one could eat; they were the fat, among many lean," said Gavrila Ardalionovitch. "A brilliant idea, and most true!" cried Lebedeff, "for he never even touched the laity. Sixty monks, and not a single layman! It is a terrible idea, but it is historic, it is statistic; it is indeed one of those facts which enables an intelligent historian to reconstruct the physiognomy of a special epoch, for it brings out this further point with mathematical accuracy, that the clergy were in those days sixty times richer and more flourishing than the rest of humanity. and perhaps sixty times fatter also..." "You are exaggerating, you are exaggerating, Lebedeff!" cried his hearers, amid laughter. "I admit that it is an historic thought, but what is your conclusion?" asked the prince. He spoke so seriously in addressing Lebedeff, that his tone contrasted quite comically with that of the others. They were very nearly laughing at him, too, but he did not notice it. "Don't you see he is a lunatic, prince?" whispered Evgenie Pavlovitch in his ear. "Someone told me just now that he is a bit touched on the subject of lawyers, that he has a mania for making speeches and intends to pass the examinations. I am expecting a splendid burlesque now." "My conclusion is vast," replied Lebedeff, in a voice like thunder. "Let us examine first the psychological and legal position of the criminal. We see that in spite of the difficulty of finding other food, the accused, or, as we may say, my client, has often during his peculiar life exhibited signs of repentance, and of wishing to give up this clerical diet. Incontrovertible facts prove this assertion. He has eaten five or six children, a relatively insignificant number, no doubt, but remarkable enough from another point of view. It is manifest that, pricked by remorse--for my client is religious, in his way, and has a conscience, as I shall prove later--and desiring to extenuate his sin as far as possible, he has tried six times at least to substitute lay nourishment for clerical. That this was merely an experiment we can hardly doubt: for if it had been only a question of gastronomic variety, six would have been too few; why only six? Why not thirty? But if we regard it as an experiment, inspired by the fear of committing new sacrilege, then this number six becomes intelligible. Six attempts to calm his remorse, and the pricking of his conscience, would amply suffice, for these attempts could scarcely by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 235 have been happy ones. In my humble opinion, a child is too small; I should say, not sufficient; which would result in four or five times more lay children than monks being required in a given time. The sin, lessened on the one hand, would therefore be increased on the other, in quantity, not in quality. Please understand, gentlemen, that in reasoning thus, I am taking the point of view which might have been taken by a criminal of the middle ages. As for myself, a man of the late nineteenth century, I, of course, should reason differently; I say so plainly, and therefore you need not jeer at me nor mock me, gentlemen. As for you, general, it is still more unbecoming on your part. In the second place, and giving my own personal opinion, a child's flesh is not a satisfying diet; it is too insipid, too sweet; and the criminal, in making these experiments, could have satisfied neither his conscience nor his appetite. I am about to conclude, gentlemen; and my conclusion contains a reply to one of the most important questions of that day and of our own! This criminal ended at last by denouncing himself to the clergy, and giving himself up to justice. We cannot but ask, remembering the penal system of that day, and the tortures that awaited him--the wheel, the stake, the fire!--we cannot but ask, I repeat, what induced him to accuse himself of this crime? Why did he not simply stop short at the number sixty, and keep his secret until his last breath? Why could he not simply leave the monks alone, and go into the desert to repent? Or why not become a monk himself? That is where the puzzle comes in! There must have been something stronger than the stake or the fire, or even than the habits of twenty years! There must have been an idea more powerful than all the calamities and sorrows of this world, famine or torture, leprosy or plague--an idea which entered into the heart, directed and enlarged the springs of life, and made even that hell supportable to humanity! Show me a force, a power like that, in this our century of vices and railways! I might say, perhaps, in our century of steamboats and railways, but I repeat in our century of vices and railways, because I am drunk but truthful! Show me a single idea which unites men nowadays with half the strength that it had in those centuries, and dare to maintain that the 'springs of life' have not been polluted and weakened beneath this 'star,' beneath this network in which men are entangled! Don't talk to me about your prosperity, your riches, the rarity of famine, the rapidity of the means of transport! There is more of riches, but less of force. The idea uniting heart and soul to heart and soul exists no more. All is loose, soft, limp--we are all of us limp.... Enough, gentlemen! I have done. That is not the question. No, the question is now, excellency, I believe, to sit down to the banquet you are about to provide for us!" Lebedeff had roused great indignation in some of his auditors (it should be remarked that the bottles were constantly uncorked during his speech); but this unexpected conclusion calmed even the most turbulent spirits. "That's how a clever barrister makes a good point!" said he, when speaking of his peroration later on. The visitors began to laugh and chatter once again; the committee left their seats, and stretched their legs on the terrace. Keller alone was still disgusted with Lebedeff and his speech; he turned from one to another, saying in a loud voice: "He attacks education, he boasts of the fanaticism of the twelfth century, he makes absurd grimaces, and added to that he is by no means the innocent he makes himself out to be. How did he get the money to buy this house, allow me to ask?" In another corner was the general, holding forth to a group of hearers, among them Ptitsin, whom he had buttonholed. "I have known," said he, "a real interpreter of the Apocalypse, the late Gregory Semeonovitch Burmistroff, and he--he pierced the heart like a fiery flash! He began by putting on his spectacles, then he opened a large black book; his white beard, and his two medals on his breast, recalling acts of charity, all added to his impressiveness. He began in a stern voice, and before him generals, hard men of the world, bowed down, and ladies fell to the ground fainting. But this one here--he ends by announcing a banquet! That is not the real thing!" Ptitsin listened and smiled, then turned as if to get his hat; but if he had intended to leave, he changed his mind. Before the others had risen from the table, Gania had suddenly left off drinking, and pushed away his glass, a dark shadow seemed to come over his face. When they all rose, he went and sat down by Rogojin. It might have been believed that quite friendly relations existed between them. Rogojin, who had also seemed on the point of going away now sat motionless, his head bent, seeming to have forgotten his intention. He had by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 236 drunk no wine, and appeared absorbed in reflection. From time to time he raised his eyes, and examined everyone present; one might have imagined that he was expecting something very important to himself, and that he had decided to wait for it. The prince had taken two or three glasses of champagne, and seemed cheerful. As he rose he noticed Evgenie Pavlovitch, and, remembering the appointment he had made with him, smiled pleasantly. Evgenie Pavlovitch made a sign with his head towards Hippolyte, whom he was attentively watching. The invalid was fast asleep, stretched out on the sofa. "Tell me, prince, why on earth did this boy intrude himself upon you?" he asked, with such annoyance and irritation in his voice that the prince was quite surprised. "I wouldn't mind laying odds that he is up to some mischief." "I have observed," said the prince, "that he seems to be an object of very singular interest to you, Evgenie Pavlovitch. Why is it?" "You may add that I have surely enough to think of, on my own account, without him; and therefore it is all the more surprising that I cannot tear my eyes and thoughts away from his detestable physiognomy." "Oh, come! He has a handsome face." "Why, look at him--look at him now!" The prince glanced again at Evgenie Pavlovitch with considerable surprise. V. HIPPOLYTE, who had fallen asleep during Lebedeff's discourse, now suddenly woke up, just as though someone had jogged him in the side. He shuddered, raised himself on his arm, gazed around, and grew very pale. A look almost of terror crossed his face as he recollected. "What! are they all off? Is it all over? Is the sun up?" He trembled, and caught at the prince's hand. "What time is it? Tell me, quick, for goodness' sake! How long have I slept?" he added, almost in despair, just as though he had overslept something upon which his whole fate depended. "You have slept seven or perhaps eight minutes," said Evgenie Pavlovitch. Hippolyte gazed eagerly at the latter, and mused for a few moments. "Oh, is that all?" he said at last. "Then I--" He drew a long, deep breath of relief, as it seemed. He realized that all was not over as yet, that the sun had not risen, and that the guests had merely gone to supper. He smiled, and two hectic spots appeared on his cheeks. "So you counted the minutes while I slept, did you, Evgenie Pavlovitch?" he said, ironically. "You have not taken your eyes off me all the evening--I have noticed that much, you see! Ah, Rogojin! I've just been dreaming about him, prince," he added, frowning. "Yes, by the by," starting up, "where's the orator? Where's Lebedeff? Has he finished? What did he talk about? Is it true, prince, that you once declared that 'beauty would save the world'? Great Heaven! The prince says that beauty saves the world! And I declare that he only has such playful ideas because he's in love! Gentlemen, the prince is in love. I guessed it the moment he came in. Don't blush, prince; you make me sorry for you. What beauty saves the world? Colia told me that you are a zealous Christian; is it so? Colia says you call yourself a Christian." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 237 The prince regarded him attentively, but said nothing. "You don't answer me; perhaps you think I am very fond of you?" added Hippolyte, as though the words had been drawn from him. "No, I don't think that. I know you don't love me." "What, after yesterday? Wasn't I honest with you?" "I knew yesterday that you didn't love me." "Why so? why so? Because I envy you, eh? You always think that, I know. But do you know why I am saying all this? Look here! I must have some more champagne--pour me out some, Keller, will you?" "No, you're not to drink any more, Hippolyte. I won't let you." The prince moved the glass away. "Well perhaps you're right," said Hippolyte, musing. They might say--yet, devil take them! what does it matter?--prince, what can it matter what people will say of us THEN, eh? I believe I'm half asleep. I've had such a dreadful dream--I've only just remembered it. Prince, I don't wish you such dreams as that, though sure enough, perhaps, I DON'T love you. Why wish a man evil, though you do not love him, eh? Give me your hand--let me press it sincerely. There--you've given me your hand--you must feel that I DO press it sincerely, don't you? I don't think I shall drink any more. What time is it? Never mind, I know the time. The time has come, at all events. What! they are laying supper over there, are they? Then this table is free? Capital, gentlemen! I--hem! these gentlemen are not listening. Prince, I will just read over an article I have here. Supper is more interesting, of course, but--" Here Hippolyte suddenly, and most unexpectedly, pulled out of his breast-pocket a large sealed paper. This imposing-looking document he placed upon the table before him. The effect of this sudden action upon the company was instantaneous. Evgenie Pavlovitch almost bounded off his chair in excitement. Rogojin drew nearer to the table with a look on his face as if he knew what was coming. Gania came nearer too; so did Lebedeff and the others--the paper seemed to be an object of great interest to the company in general. "What have you got there?" asked the prince, with some anxiety. "At the first glimpse of the rising sun, prince, I will go to bed. I told you I would, word of honour! You shall see!" cried Hippolyte. "You think I'm not capable of opening this packet, do you?" He glared defiantly round at the audience in general. The prince observed that he was trembling all over. "None of us ever thought such a thing!" Muishkin replied for all. "Why should you suppose it of us? And what are you going to read, Hippolyte? What is it?" "Yes, what is it?" asked others. The packet sealed with red wax seemed to attract everyone, as though it were a magnet. "I wrote this yesterday, myself, just after I saw you, prince, and told you I would come down here. I wrote all day and all night, and finished it this morning early. Afterwards I had a dream." "Hadn't we better hear it tomorrow?" asked the prince timidly. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 238 "Tomorrow 'there will be no more time!'" laughed Hippolyte, hysterically. "You needn't be afraid; I shall get through the whole thing in forty minutes, at most an hour! Look how interested everybody is! Everybody has drawn near. Look! look at them all staring at my sealed packet! If I hadn't sealed it up it wouldn't have been half so effective! Ha, ha! that's mystery, that is! Now then, gentlemen, shall I break the seal or not? Say the word; it's a mystery, I tell you--a secret! Prince, you know who said there would be 'no more time'? It was the great and powerful angel in the Apocalypse." "Better not read it now," said the prince, putting his hand on the packet. "No, don't read it!" cried Evgenie suddenly. He appeared so strangely disturbed that many of those present could not help wondering. "Reading? None of your reading now!" said somebody; "it's supper- time." "What sort of an article is it? For a paper? Probably it's very dull," said another. But the prince's timid gesture had impressed even Hippolyte. "Then I'm not to read it?" he whispered, nervously. "Am I not to read it?" he repeated, gazing around at each face in turn. "What are you afraid of, prince?" he turned and asked the latter suddenly. "What should I be afraid of?" "Has anyone a coin about them? Give me a twenty-copeck piece, somebody!" And Hippolyte leapt from his chair. "Here you are," said Lebedeff, handing him one; he thought the boy had gone mad. "Vera Lukianovna," said Hippolyte, "toss it, will you? Heads, I read, tails, I don't." Vera Lebedeff tossed the coin into the air and let it fall on the table. It was "heads." "Then I read it," said Hippolyte, in the tone of one bowing to the fiat of destiny. He could not have grown paler if a verdict of death had suddenly been presented to him. "But after all, what is it? Is it possible that I should have just risked my fate by tossing up?" he went on, shuddering; and looked round him again. His eyes had a curious expression of sincerity. "That is an astonishing psychological fact," he cried, suddenly addressing the prince, in a tone of the most intense surprise. "It is ... it is something quite inconceivable, prince," he repeated with growing animation, like a man regaining consciousness. "Take note of it, prince, remember it; you collect, I am told, facts concerning capital punishment... They told me so. Ha, ha! My God, how absurd!" He sat down on the sofa, put his elbows on the table, and laid his head on his hands. "It is shameful--though what does it matter to me if it is shameful? "Gentlemen, gentlemen! I am about to break the seal," he continued, with determination. "I-I--of course I don't insist upon anyone listening if they do not wish to." With trembling fingers he broke the seal and drew out several sheets of paper, smoothed them out before him, and began sorting them. "What on earth does all this mean? What's he going to read?" muttered several voices. Others said nothing; but one and all sat down and watched with curiosity. They began to think something strange might really be about to happen. Vera stood and trembled behind her father's chair, almost in tears with fright; Colia was nearly as much alarmed as she was. Lebedeff jumped up and put a couple of candles nearer to Hippolyte, so by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 239 that he might see better. "Gentlemen, this--you'll soon see what this is," began Hippolyte, and suddenly commenced his reading. "It's headed, 'A Necessary Explanation,' with the motto, 'Apres moi le deluge!' Oh, deuce take it all! Surely I can never have seriously written such a silly motto as that? Look here, gentlemen, I beg to give notice that all this is very likely terrible nonsense. It is only a few ideas of mine. If you think that there is anything mysterious coming--or in a word--" "Better read on without any more beating about the bush," said Gania. "Affectation!" remarked someone else. "Too much talk," said Rogojin, breaking the silence for the first time. Hippolyte glanced at him suddenly, and when their eye, met Rogojin showed his teeth in a disagreeable smile, and said the following strange words: "That's not the way to settle this business, my friend; that's not the way at all." Of course nobody knew what Rogojin meant by this; but his words made a deep impression upon all. Everyone seemed to see in a flash the same idea. As for Hippolyte, their effect upon him was astounding. He trembled so that the prince was obliged to support him, and would certainly have cried out, but that his voice seemed to have entirely left him for the moment. For a minute or two he could not speak at all, but panted and stared at Rogojin. At last he managed to ejaculate: "Then it was YOU who came--YOU--YOU?" "Came where? What do you mean?" asked Rogojin, amazed. But Hippolyte, panting and choking with excitement, interrupted him violently. "YOU came to me last week, in the night, at two o'clock, the day I was with you in the morning! Confess it was you!" "Last week? In the night? Have you gone cracked, my good friend?" Hippolyte paused and considered a moment. Then a smile of cunning--almost triumph--crossed his lips. "It was you," he murmured, almost in a whisper, but with absolute conviction. "Yes, it was you who came to my room and sat silently on a chair at my window for a whole hour--more! It was between one and two at night; you rose and went out at about three. It was you, you! Why you should have frightened me so, why you should have wished to torment me like that, I cannot tell--but you it was." There was absolute hatred in his eyes as he said this, but his look of fear and his trembling had not left him. "You shall hear all this directly, gentlemen. I-I--listen!" He seized his paper in a desperate hurry; he fidgeted with it, and tried to sort it, but for a long while his trembling hands could not collect the sheets together. "He's either mad or delirious," murmured Rogojin. At last he began. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 240 For the first five minutes the reader's voice continued to tremble, and he read disconnectedly and unevenly; but gradually his voice strengthened. Occasionally a violent fit of coughing stopped him, but his animation grew with the progress of the reading--as did also the disagreeable impression which it made upon his audience,--until it reached the highest pitch of excitement. Here is the article. MY NECESSARY EXPLANATION. "Apres moi le deluge. "Yesterday morning the prince came to see me. Among other things he asked me to come down to his villa. I knew he would come and persuade me to this step, and that he would adduce the argument that it would be easier for me to die' among people and green trees,'--as he expressed it. But today he did not say 'die,' he said 'live.' It is pretty much the same to me, in my position, which he says. When I asked him why he made such a point of his 'green trees,' he told me, to my astonishment, that he had heard that last time I was in Pavlofsk I had said that I had come 'to have a last look at the trees.' "When I observed that it was all the same whether one died among trees or in front of a blank brick wall, as here, and that it was not worth making any fuss over a fortnight, he agreed at once. But he insisted that the good air at Pavlofsk and the greenness would certainly cause a physical change for the better, and that my excitement, and my DREAMS, would be perhaps relieved. I remarked to him, with a smile, that he spoke like a materialist, and he answered that he had always been one. As he never tells a lie, there must be something in his words. His smile is a pleasant one. I have had a good look at him. I don't know whether I like him or not; and I have no time to waste over the question. The hatred which I felt for him for five months has become considerably modified, I may say, during the last month. Who knows, perhaps I am going to Pavlofsk on purpose to see him! But why do I leave my chamber? Those who are sentenced to death should not leave their cells. If I had not formed a final resolve, but had decided to wait until the last minute, I should not leave my room, or accept his invitation to come and die at Pavlofsk. I must be quick and finish this explanation before tomorrow. I shall have no time to read it over and correct it, for I must read it tomorrow to the prince and two or three witnesses whom I shall probably find there. "As it will be absolutely true, without a touch of falsehood, I am curious to see what impression it will make upon me myself at the moment when I read it out. This is my 'last and solemn'--but why need I call it that? There is no question about the truth of it, for it is not worthwhile lying for a fortnight; a fortnight of life is not itself worth having, which is a proof that I write nothing here but pure truth. ("N.B.--Let me remember to consider; am I mad at this moment, or not? or rather at these moments? I have been told that consumptives sometimes do go out of their minds for a while in the last stages of the malady. I can prove this tomorrow when I read it out, by the impression it makes upon the audience. I must settle this question once and for all, otherwise I can't go on with anything.) "I believe I have just written dreadful nonsense; but there's no time for correcting, as I said before. Besides that, I have made myself a promise not to alter a single word of what I write in this paper, even though I find that I am contradicting myself every five lines. I wish to verify the working of the natural logic of my ideas tomorrow during the reading--whether I am capable of detecting logical errors, and whether all that I have meditated over during the last six months be true, or nothing but delirium. "If two months since I had been called upon to leave my room and the view of Meyer's wall opposite, I verily believe I should have been sorry. But now I have no such feeling, and yet I am leaving this room and Meyer's brick wall FOR EVER. So that my conclusion, that it is not worth while indulging in grief, or any other emotion, for a fortnight, has proved stronger than my very nature, and has taken over the direction of my by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 241 feelings. But is it so? Is it the case that my nature is conquered entirely? If I were to be put on the rack now, I should certainly cry out. I should not say that it is not worth while to yell and feel pain because I have but a fortnight to live. "But is it true that I have but a fortnight of life left to me? I know I told some of my friends that Doctor B. had informed me that this was the case; but I now confess that I lied; B. has not even seen me. However, a week ago, I called in a medical student, Kislorodoff, who is a Nationalist, an Atheist, and a Nihilist, by conviction, and that is why I had him. I needed a man who would tell me the bare truth without any humbug or ceremony--and so he did--indeed, almost with pleasure (which I thought was going a little too far). "Well, he plumped out that I had about a month left me; it might be a little more, he said, under favourable circumstances, but it might also be considerably less. According to his opinion I might die quite suddenly--tomorrow, for instance--there had been such cases. Only a day or two since a young lady at Colomna who suffered from consumption, and was about on a par with myself in the march of the disease, was going out to market to buy provisions, when she suddenly felt faint, lay down on the sofa, gasped once, and died. "Kislorodoff told me all this with a sort of exaggerated devil- may-care negligence, and as though he did me great honour by talking to me so, because it showed that he considered me the same sort of exalted Nihilistic being as himself, to whom death was a matter of no consequence whatever, either way. "At all events, the fact remained--a month of life and no more! That he is right in his estimation I am absolutely persuaded. "It puzzles me much to think how on earth the prince guessed yesterday that I have had bad dreams. He said to me, 'Your excitement and dreams will find relief at Pavlofsk.' Why did he say 'dreams'? Either he is a doctor, or else he is a man of exceptional intelligence and wonderful powers of observation. (But that he is an 'idiot,' at bottom there can be no doubt whatever.) It so happened that just before he arrived I had a delightful little dream; one of a kind that I have hundreds of just now. I had fallen asleep about an hour before he came in, and dreamed that I was in some room, not my own. It was a large room, well furnished, with a cupboard, chest of drawers, sofa, and my bed, a fine wide bed covered with a silken counterpane. But I observed in the room a dreadful-looking creature, a sort of monster. It was a little like a scorpion, but was not a scorpion, but far more horrible, and especially so, because there are no creatures anything like it in nature, and because it had appeared to me for a purpose, and bore some mysterious signification. I looked at the beast well; it was brown in colour and had a shell; it was a crawling kind of reptile, about eight inches long, and narrowed down from the head, which was about a couple of fingers in width, to the end of the tail, which came to a fine point. Out of its trunk, about a couple of inches below its head, came two legs at an angle of forty-five degrees, each about three inches long, so that the beast looked like a trident from above. It had eight hard needle-like whiskers coming out from different parts of its body; it went along like a snake, bending its body about in spite of the shell it wore, and its motion was very quick and very horrible to look at. I was dreadfully afraid it would sting me; somebody had told me, I thought, that it was venomous; but what tormented me most of all was the wondering and wondering as to who had sent it into my room, and what was the mystery which I felt it contained. "It hid itself under the cupboard and under the chest of drawers, and crawled into the corners. I sat on a chair and kept my legs tucked under me. Then the beast crawled quietly across the room and disappeared somewhere near my chair. I looked about for it in terror, but I still hoped that as my feet were safely tucked away it would not be able to touch me. "Suddenly I heard behind me, and about on a level with my head, a sort of rattling sound. I turned sharp round and saw that the brute had crawled up the wall as high as the level of my face, and that its horrible tail, which was moving incredibly fast from side to side, was actually touching my hair! I jumped up--and it disappeared. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 242 I did not dare lie down on my bed for fear it should creep under my pillow. My mother came into the room, and some friends of hers. They began to hunt for the reptile and were more composed than I was; they did not seem to be afraid of it. But they did not understand as I did. "Suddenly the monster reappeared; it crawled slowly across the room and made for the door, as though with some fixed intention, and with a slow movement that was more horrible than ever. "Then my mother opened the door and called my dog, Norma. Norma was a great Newfoundland, and died five years ago. "She sprang forward and stood still in front of the reptile as if she had been turned to stone. The beast stopped too, but its tail and claws still moved about. I believe animals are incapable of feeling supernatural fright--if I have been rightly informed,--but at this moment there appeared to me to be something more than ordinary about Norma's terror, as though it must be supernatural; and as though she felt, just as I did myself, that this reptile was connected with some mysterious secret, some fatal omen. "Norma backed slowly and carefully away from the brute, which followed her, creeping deliberately after her as though it intended to make a sudden dart and sting her. "In spite of Norma's terror she looked furious, though she trembled in all her limbs. At length she slowly bared her terrible teeth, opened her great red jaws, hesitated--took courage, and seized the beast in her mouth. It seemed to try to dart out of her jaws twice, but Norma caught at it and half swallowed it as it was escaping. The shell cracked in her teeth; and the tail and legs stuck out of her mouth and shook about in a horrible manner. Suddenly Norma gave a piteous whine; the reptile had bitten her tongue. She opened her mouth wide with the pain, and I saw the beast lying across her tongue, and out of its body, which was almost bitten in two, came a hideous white-looking substance, oozing out into Norma's mouth; it was of the consistency of a crushed black-beetle. just then I awoke and the prince entered the room." "Gentlemen!" said Hippolyte, breaking off here, "I have not done yet, but it seems to me that I have written down a great deal here that is unnecessary,--this dream--" "You have indeed!" said Gania. "There is too much about myself, I know, but--" As Hippolyte said this his face wore a tired, pained look, and he wiped the sweat off his brow. "Yes," said Lebedeff, "you certainly think a great deal too much about yourself." "Well--gentlemen--I do not force anyone to listen! If any of you are unwilling to sit it out, please go away, by all means!" "He turns people out of a house that isn't his own," muttered Rogojin. "Suppose we all go away?" said Ferdishenko suddenly. Hippolyte clutched his manuscript, and gazing at the last speaker with glittering eyes, said: "You don't like me at all!" A few laughed at this, but not all. "Hippolyte," said the prince, "give me the papers, and go to bed like a sensible fellow. We'll have a good talk tomorrow, but you really mustn't go on with this reading; it is not good for you!" "How can I? How can I?" cried Hippolyte, looking at him in amazement. "Gentlemen! I was a fool! I won't by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 243 break off again. Listen, everyone who wants to!" He gulped down some water out of a glass standing near, bent over the table, in order to hide his face from the audience, and recommenced. "The idea that it is not worth while living for a few weeks took possession of me a month ago, when I was told that I had four weeks to live, but only partially so at that time. The idea quite overmastered me three days since, that evening at Pavlofsk. The first time that I felt really impressed with this thought was on the terrace at the prince's, at the very moment when I had taken it into my head to make a last trial of life. I wanted to see people and trees (I believe I said so myself), I got excited, I maintained Burdovsky's rights, 'my neighbour!'--I dreamt that one and all would open their arms, and embrace me, that there would be an indescribable exchange of forgiveness between us all! In a word, I behaved like a fool, and then, at that very same instant, I felt my 'last conviction.' I ask myself now how I could have waited six months for that conviction! I knew that I had a disease that spares no one, and I really had no illusions; but the more I realized my condition, the more I clung to life; I wanted to live at any price. I confess I might well have resented that blind, deaf fate, which, with no apparent reason, seemed to have decided to crush me like a fly; but why did I not stop at resentment? Why did I begin to live, knowing that it was not worthwhile to begin? Why did I attempt to do what I knew to be an impossibility? And yet I could not even read a book to the end; I had given up reading. What is the good of reading, what is the good of learning anything, for just six months? That thought has made me throw aside a book more than once. "Yes, that wall of Meyer's could tell a tale if it liked. There was no spot on its dirty surface that I did not know by heart. Accursed wall! and yet it is dearer to me than all the Pavlofsk trees!--That is--it WOULD be dearer if it were not all the same to me, now! "I remember now with what hungry interest I began to watch the lives of other people--interest that I had never felt before! I used to wait for Colia's arrival impatiently, for I was so ill myself, then, that I could not leave the house. I so threw myself into every little detail of news, and took so much interest in every report and rumour, that I believe I became a regular gossip! I could not understand, among other things, how all these people--with so much life in and before them--do not become RICH-- and I don't understand it now. I remember being told of a poor wretch I once knew, who had died of hunger. I was almost beside myself with rage! I believe if I could have resuscitated him I would have done so for the sole purpose of murdering him! "Occasionally I was so much better that I could go out; but the streets used to put me in such a rage that I would lock myself up for days rather than go out, even if I were well enough to do so! I could not bear to see all those preoccupied, anxious-looking creatures continuously surging along the streets past me! Why are they always anxious? What is the meaning of their eternal care and worry? It is their wickedness, their perpetual detestable malice--that's what it is--they are all full of malice, malice! "Whose fault is it that they are all miserable, that they don't know how to live, though they have fifty or sixty years of life before them? Why did that fool allow himself to die of hunger with sixty years of unlived life before him? "And everyone of them shows his rags, his toil-worn hands, and yells in his wrath: 'Here are we, working like cattle all our lives, and always as hungry as dogs, and there are others who do not work, and are fat and rich!' The eternal refrain! And side by side with them trots along some wretched fellow who has known better days, doing light porter's work from morn to night for a living, always blubbering and saying that 'his wife died because he had no money to buy medicine with,' and his children dying of cold and hunger, and his eldest daughter gone to the bad, and so on. Oh! I have no pity and no patience for these fools of people. Why can't they be Rothschilds? Whose fault is it that a man has not got millions of money like Rothschild? If he has life, all this must be in his power! Whose fault is it that he does not know how to live his life? by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 244 "Oh! it's all the same to me now--NOW! But at that time I would soak my pillow at night with tears of mortification, and tear at my blanket in my rage and fury. Oh, how I longed at that time to be turned out--ME, eighteen years old, poor, half-clothed, turned out into the street, quite alone, without lodging, without work, without a crust of bread, without relations, without a single acquaintance, in some large town--hungry, beaten (if you like), but in good health--and THEN I would show them-- "What would I show them? "Oh, don't think that I have no sense of my own humiliation! I have suffered already in reading so far. Which of you all does not think me a fool at this moment--a young fool who knows nothing of life--forgetting that to live as I have lived these last six months is to live longer than grey-haired old men. Well, let them laugh, and say it is all nonsense, if they please. They may say it is all fairy-tales, if they like; and I have spent whole nights telling myself fairy-tales. I remember them all. But how can I tell fairy-tales now? The time for them is over. They amused me when I found that there was not even time for me to learn the Greek grammar, as I wanted to do. 'I shall die before I get to the syntax,' I thought at the first page--and threw the book under the table. It is there still, for I forbade anyone to pick it up. "If this 'Explanation' gets into anybody's hands, and they have patience to read it through, they may consider me a madman, or a schoolboy, or, more likely, a man condemned to die, who thought it only natural to conclude that all men, excepting himself, esteem life far too lightly, live it far too carelessly and lazily, and are, therefore, one and all, unworthy of it. Well, I affirm that my reader is wrong again, for my convictions have nothing to do with my sentence of death. Ask them, ask any one of them, or all of them, what they mean by happiness! Oh, you may be perfectly sure that if Columbus was happy, it was not after he had discovered America, but when he was discovering it! You may be quite sure that he reached the culminating point of his happiness three days before he saw the New World with his actual eves, when his mutinous sailors wanted to tack about, and return to Europe! What did the New World matter after all? Columbus had hardly seen it when he died, and in reality he was entirely ignorant of what he had discovered. The important thing is life-- life and nothing else! What is any 'discovery' whatever compared with the incessant, eternal discovery of life? "But what is the use of talking? I'm afraid all this is so commonplace that my confession will be taken for a schoolboy exercise--the work of some ambitious lad writing in the hope of his work 'seeing the light'; or perhaps my readers will say that 'I had perhaps something to say, but did not know how to express it.' "Let me add to this that in every idea emanating from genius, or even in every serious human idea--born in the human brain--there always remains something--some sediment--which cannot be expressed to others, though one wrote volumes and lectured upon it for five-and-thirty years. There is always a something, a remnant, which will never come out from your brain, but will remain there with you, and you alone, for ever and ever, and you will die, perhaps, without having imparted what may be the very essence of your idea to a single living soul. "So that if I cannot now impart all that has tormented me for the last six months, at all events you will understand that, having reached my 'last convictions,' I must have paid a very dear price for them. That is what I wished, for reasons of my own, to make a point of in this my 'Explanation.' "But let me resume. VI. "I WILL not deceive you. 'Reality' got me so entrapped in its meshes now and again during the past six months, that I forgot my 'sentence' (or perhaps I did not wish to think of it), and actually busied myself with affairs. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 245 "A word as to my circumstances. When, eight months since, I became very ill, I threw up all my old connections and dropped all my old companions. As I was always a gloomy, morose sort of individual, my friends easily forgot me; of course, they would have forgotten me all the same, without that excuse. My position at home was solitary enough. Five months ago I separated myself entirely from the family, and no one dared enter my room except at stated times, to clean and tidy it, and so on, and to bring me my meals. My mother dared not disobey me; she kept the children quiet, for my sake, and beat them if they dared to make any noise and disturb me. I so often complained of them that I should think they must be very fond, indeed, of me by this time. I think I must have tormented 'my faithful Colia' (as I called him) a good deal too. He tormented me of late; I could see that he always bore my tempers as though he had determined to 'spare the poor invalid.' This annoyed me, naturally. He seemed to have taken it into his head to imitate the prince in Christian meekness! Surikoff, who lived above us, annoyed me, too. He was so miserably poor, and I used to prove to him that he had no one to blame but himself for his poverty. I used to be so angry that I think I frightened him eventually, for he stopped coming to see me. He was a most meek and humble fellow, was Surikoff. (N.B.-- They say that meekness is a great power. I must ask the prince about this, for the expression is his.) But I remember one day in March, when I went up to his lodgings to see whether it was true that one of his children had been starved and frozen to death, I began to hold forth to him about his poverty being his own fault, and, in the course of my remarks, I accidentally smiled at the corpse of his child. Well, the poor wretch's lips began to tremble, and he caught me by the shoulder, and pushed me to the door. 'Go out,' he said, in a whisper. I went out, of course, and I declare I LIKED it. I liked it at the very moment when I was turned out. But his words filled me with a strange sort of feeling of disdainful pity for him whenever I thought of them--a feeling which I did not in the least desire to entertain. At the very moment of the insult (for I admit that I did insult him, though I did not mean to), this man could not lose his temper. His lips had trembled, but I swear it was not with rage. He had taken me by the arm, and said, 'Go out,' without the least anger. There was dignity, a great deal of dignity, about him, and it was so inconsistent with the look of him that, I assure you, it was quite comical. But there was no anger. Perhaps he merely began to despise me at that moment. "Since that time he has always taken off his hat to me on the stairs, whenever I met him, which is a thing he never did before; but he always gets away from me as quickly as he can, as though he felt confused. If he did despise me, he despised me 'meekly,' after his own fashion. "I dare say he only took his hat off out of fear, as it were, to the son of his creditor; for he always owed my mother money. I thought of having an explanation with him, but I knew that if I did, he would begin to apologize in a minute or two, so I decided to let him alone. "Just about that time, that is, the middle of March, I suddenly felt very much better; this continued for a couple of weeks. I used to go out at dusk. I like the dusk, especially in March, when the night frost begins to harden the day's puddles, and the gas is burning. "Well, one night in the Shestilavochnaya, a man passed me with a paper parcel under his arm. I did not take stock of him very carefully, but he seemed to be dressed in some shabby summer dust-coat, much too light for the season. When he was opposite the lamp-post, some ten yards away, I observed something fall out of his pocket. I hurried forward to pick it up, just in time, for an old wretch in a long kaftan rushed up too. He did not dispute the matter, but glanced at what was in my hand and disappeared. "It was a large old-fashioned pocket-book, stuffed full; but I guessed, at a glance, that it had anything in the world inside it, except money. "The owner was now some forty yards ahead of me, and was very soon lost in the crowd. I ran after him, and began calling out; but as I knew nothing to say excepting 'hey!' he did not turn round. Suddenly he turned into the gate of a house to the left; and when I darted in after him, the gateway was so dark that I could see nothing whatever. It was one of those large houses built in small tenements, of which there must have been at least a hundred. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 246 "When I entered the yard I thought I saw a man going along on the far side of it; but it was so dark I could not make out his figure. "I crossed to that corner and found a dirty dark staircase. I heard a man mounting up above me, some way higher than I was, and thinking I should catch him before his door would be opened to him, I rushed after him. I heard a door open and shut on the fifth storey, as I panted along; the stairs were narrow, and the steps innumerable, but at last I reached the door I thought the right one. Some moments passed before I found the bell and got it to ring. "An old peasant woman opened the door; she was busy lighting the 'samovar' in a tiny kitchen. She listened silently to my questions, did not understand a word, of course, and opened another door leading into a little bit of a room, low and scarcely furnished at all, but with a large, wide bed in it, hung with curtains. On this bed lay one Terentich, as the woman called him, drunk, it appeared to me. On the table was an end of candle in an iron candlestick, and a half-bottle of vodka, nearly finished. Terentich muttered something to me, and signed towards the next room. The old woman had disappeared, so there was nothing for me to do but to open the door indicated. I did so, and entered the next room. "This was still smaller than the other, so cramped that I could scarcely turn round; a narrow single bed at one side took up nearly all the room. Besides the bed there were only three common chairs, and a wretched old kitchen-table standing before a small sofa. One could hardly squeeze through between the table and the bed. "On the table, as in the other room, burned a tallow candle-end in an iron candlestick; and on the bed there whined a baby of scarcely three weeks old. A pale-looking woman was dressing the child, probably the mother; she looked as though she had not as yet got over the trouble of childbirth, she seemed so weak and was so carelessly dressed. Another child, a little girl of about three years old, lay on the sofa, covered over with what looked like a man's old dress-coat. "At the table stood a man in his shirt sleeves; he had thrown off his coat; it lay upon the bed; and he was unfolding a blue paper parcel in which were a couple of pounds of bread, and some little sausages. "On the table along with these things were a few old bits of black bread, and some tea in a pot. From under the bed there protruded an open portmanteau full of bundles of rags. In a word, the confusion and untidiness of the room were indescribable. "It appeared to me, at the first glance, that both the man and the woman were respectable people, but brought to that pitch of poverty where untidiness seems to get the better of every effort to cope with it, till at last they take a sort of bitter satisfaction in it. When I entered the room, the man, who had entered but a moment before me, and was still unpacking his parcels, was saying something to his wife in an excited manner. The news was apparently bad, as usual, for the woman began whimpering. The man's face seemed tome to be refined and even pleasant. He was dark-complexioned, and about twenty-eight years of age; he wore black whiskers, and his lip and chin were shaved. He looked morose, but with a sort of pride of expression. A curious scene followed. "There are people who find satisfaction in their own touchy feelings, especially when they have just taken the deepest offence; at such moments they feel that they would rather be offended than not. These easily-ignited natures, if they are wise, are always full of remorse afterwards, when they reflect that they have been ten times as angry as they need have been. "The gentleman before me gazed at me for some seconds in amazement, and his wife in terror; as though there was something alarmingly extraordinary in the fact that anyone could come to see them. But suddenly he fell upon me almost with fury; I had had no time to mutter more than a couple of words; but he had doubtless observed that I was decently dressed and, therefore, took deep offence because I had dared enter his den so by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 247 unceremoniously, and spy out the squalor and untidiness of it. "Of course he was delighted to get hold of someone upon whom to vent his rage against things in general. "For a moment I thought he would assault me; he grew so pale that he looked like a woman about to have hysterics; his wife was dreadfully alarmed. "'How dare you come in so? Be off!' he shouted, trembling all over with rage and scarcely able to articulate the words. Suddenly, however, he observed his pocketbook in my hand. "'I think you dropped this,' I remarked, as quietly and drily as I could. (I thought it best to treat him so.) For some while he stood before me in downright terror, and seemed unable to understand. He then suddenly grabbed at his side-pocket, opened his mouth in alarm, and beat his forehead with his hand. "'My God!' he cried, 'where did you find it? How?' I explained in as few words as I could, and as drily as possible, how I had seen it and picked it up; how I had run after him, and called out to him, and how I had followed him upstairs and groped my way to his door. "'Gracious Heaven!' he cried, 'all our papers are in it! My dear sir, you little know what you have done for us. I should have been lost--lost!' "I had taken hold of the door-handle meanwhile, intending to leave the room without reply; but I was panting with my run upstairs, and my exhaustion came to a climax in a violent fit of coughing, so bad that I could hardly stand. "I saw how the man dashed about the room to find me an empty chair, how he kicked the rags off a chair which was covered up by them, brought it to me, and helped me to sit down; but my cough went on for another three minutes or so. When I came to myself he was sitting by me on another chair, which he had also cleared of the rubbish by throwing it all over the floor, and was watching me intently. "'I'm afraid you are ill?' he remarked, in the tone which doctors use when they address a patient. 'I am myself a medical man' (he did not say 'doctor'), with which words he waved his hands towards the room and its contents as though in protest at his present condition. 'I see that you--' "'I'm in consumption,' I said laconically, rising from my seat. He jumped up, too. "'Perhaps you are exaggerating--if you were to take proper measures perhaps--" "He was terribly confused and did not seem able to collect his scattered senses; the pocket-book was still in his left hand. "'Oh, don't mind me,' I said. 'Dr. B-- saw me last week' (I lugged him in again), 'and my hash is quite settled; pardon me-' I took hold of the door-handle again. I was on the point of opening the door and leaving my grateful but confused medical friend to himself and his shame, when my damnable cough got hold of me again. "My doctor insisted on my sitting down again to get my breath. He now said something to his wife who, without leaving her place, addressed a few words of gratitude and courtesy to me. She seemed very shy over it, and her sickly face flushed up with confusion. I remained, but with the air of a man who knows he is intruding and is anxious to get away. The doctor's remorse at last seemed to need a vent, I could see. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 248 "'If I--' he began, breaking off abruptly every other moment, and starting another sentence. 'I-I am so very grateful to you, and I am so much to blame in your eyes, I feel sure, I--you see--' (he pointed to the room again) 'at this moment I am in such a position-' "'Oh!' I said, 'there's nothing to see; it's quite a clear case-- you've lost your post and have come up to make explanations and get another, if you can!' "'How do you know that?' he asked in amazement. "'Oh, it was evident at the first glance,' I said ironically, but not intentionally so. 'There are lots of people who come up from the provinces full of hope, and run about town, and have to live as best they can.' "He began to talk at once excitedly and with trembling lips; he began complaining and telling me his story. He interested me, I confess; I sat there nearly an hour. His story was a very ordinary one. He had been a provincial doctor; he had a civil appointment, and had no sooner taken it up than intrigues began. Even his wife was dragged into these. He was proud, and flew into a passion; there was a change of local government which acted in favour of his opponents; his position was undermined, complaints were made against him; he lost his post and came up to Petersburg with his last remaining money, in order to appeal to higher authorities. Of course nobody would listen to him for a long time; he would come and tell his story one day and be refused promptly; another day he would be fed on false promises; again he would be treated harshly; then he would be told to sign some documents; then he would sign the paper and hand it in, and they would refuse to receive it, and tell him to file a formal petition. In a word he had been driven about from office to office for five months and had spent every farthing he had; his wife's last rags had just been pawned; and meanwhile a child had been born to them and--and today I have a final refusal to my petition, and I have hardly a crumb of bread left--I have nothing left; my wife has had a baby lately--and I-I--' "He sprang up from his chair and turned away. His wife was crying in the corner; the child had begun to moan again. I pulled out my note-book and began writing in it. When I had finished and rose from my chair he was standing before me with an expression of alarmed curiosity. "'I have jotted down your name,' I told him, 'and all the rest of it--the place you served at, the district, the date, and all. I have a friend, Bachmatoff, whose uncle is a councillor of state and has to do with these matters, one Peter Matveyevitch Bachmatoff.' "'Peter Matveyevitch Bachmatoff!' he cried, trembling all over with excitement. 'Why, nearly everything depends on that very man!' "It is very curious, this story of the medical man, and my visit, and the happy termination to which I contributed by accident! Everything fitted in, as in a novel. I told the poor people not to put much hope in me, because I was but a poor schoolboy myself-- (I am not really, but I humiliated myself as much as possible in order to make them less hopeful)--but that I would go at once to the Vassili Ostroff and see my friend; and that as I knew for certain that his uncle adored him, and was absolutely devoted to him as the last hope and branch of the family, perhaps the old man might do something to oblige his nephew. "'If only they would allow me to explain all to his excellency! If I could but be permitted to tell my tale to him!" he cried, trembling with feverish agitation, and his eyes flashing with excitement. I repeated once more that I could not hold out much hope--that it would probably end in smoke, and if I did not turn up next morning they must make up their minds that there was no more to be done in the matter. "They showed me out with bows and every kind of respect; they seemed quite beside themselves. I shall never forget the expression of their faces! by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 249 "I took a droshky and drove over to the Vassili Ostroff at once. For some years I had been at enmity with this young Bachmatoff, at school. We considered him an aristocrat; at all events I called him one. He used to dress smartly, and always drove to school in a private trap. He was a good companion, and was always merry and jolly, sometimes even witty, though he was not very intellectual, in spite of the fact that he was always top of the class; I myself was never top in anything! All his companions were very fond of him, excepting myself. He had several times during those years come up to me and tried to make friends; but I had always turned sulkily away and refused to have anything to do with him. I had not seen him for a whole year now; he was at the university. When, at nine o'clock, or so, this evening, I arrived and was shown up to him with great ceremony, he first received me with astonishment, and not too affably, but he soon cheered up, and suddenly gazed intently at me and burst out laughing. "'Why, what on earth can have possessed you to come and see ME, Terentieff?' he cried, with his usual pleasant, sometimes audacious, but never offensive familiarity, which I liked in reality, but for which I also detested him. 'Why what's the matter?' he cried in alarm. 'Are you ill?' "That confounded cough of mine had come on again; I fell into a chair, and with difficulty recovered my breath. 'It's all right, it's only consumption' I said. 'I have come to you with a petition!' "He sat down in amazement, and I lost no time in telling him the medical man's history; and explained that he, with the influence which he possessed over his uncle, might do some good to the poor fellow. "'I'll do it--I'll do it, of course!' he said. 'I shall attack my uncle about it tomorrow morning, and I'm very glad you told me the story. But how was it that you thought of coming to me about it, Terentieff?' "'So much depends upon your uncle,' I said. 'And besides we have always been enemies, Bachmatoff; and as you are a generous sort of fellow, I thought you would not refuse my request because I was your enemy!' I added with irony. "'Like Napoleon going to England, eh?' cried he, laughing. 'I'll do it though--of course, and at once, if I can!' he added, seeing that I rose seriously from my chair at this point. "And sure enough the matter ended as satisfactorily as possible. A month or so later my medical friend was appointed to another post. He got his travelling expenses paid, and something to help him to start life with once more. I think Bachmatoff must have persuaded the doctor to accept a loan from himself. I saw Bachmatoff two or three times, about this period, the third time being when he gave a farewell dinner to the doctor and his wife before their departure, a champagne dinner. "Bachmatoff saw me home after the dinner and we crossed the Nicolai bridge. We were both a little drunk. He told me of his joy, the joyful feeling of having done a good action; he said that it was all thanks to myself that he could feel this satisfaction; and held forth about the foolishness of the theory that individual charity is useless "I, too, was burning to have my say! "'In Moscow,' I said, 'there was an old state counsellor, a civil general, who, all his life, had been in the habit of visiting the prisons and speaking to criminals. Every party of convicts on its way to Siberia knew beforehand that on the Vorobeef Hills the "old general" would pay them a visit. He did all he undertook seriously and devotedly. He would walk down the rows of the unfortunate prisoners, stop before each individual and ask after his needs--he never sermonized them; he spoke kindly to them--he gave them money; he brought them all sorts of necessaries for the journey, and gave them devotional books, choosing those who could read, under the firm conviction that they would read to those who could not, as they went along. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 250 "'He scarcely ever talked about the particular crimes of any of them, but listened if any volunteered information on that point. All the convicts were equal for him, and he made no distinction. He spoke to all as to brothers, and every one of them looked upon him as a father. When he observed among the exiles some poor woman with a child, he would always come forward and fondle the little one, and make it laugh. He continued these acts of mercy up to his very death; and by that time all the criminals, all over Russia and Siberia, knew him! "'A man I knew who had been to Siberia and returned, told me that he himself had been a witness of how the very most hardened criminals remembered the old general, though, in point of fact, he could never, of course, have distributed more than a few pence to each member of a party. Their recollection of him was not sentimental or particularly devoted. Some wretch, for instance, who had been a murderer--cutting the throat of a dozen fellow- creatures, for instance; or stabbing six little children for his own amusement (there have been such men!)--would perhaps, without rhyme or reason, suddenly give a sigh and say, "I wonder whether that old general is alive still!" Although perhaps he had not thought of mentioning him for a dozen years before! How can one say what seed of good may have been dropped into his soul, never to die?' "I continued in that strain for a long while, pointing out to Bachmatoff how impossible it is to follow up the effects of any isolated good deed one may do, in all its influences and subtle workings upon the heart and after-actions of others. "'And to think that you are to be cut off from life!' remarked Bachmatoff, in a tone of reproach, as though he would like to find someone to pitch into on my account. "We were leaning over the balustrade of the bridge, looking into the Neva at this moment. "'Do you know what has suddenly come into my head?' said I, suddenly--leaning further and further over the rail. "'Surely not to throw yourself into the river?' cried Bachmatoff in alarm. Perhaps he read my thought in my face. "'No, not yet. At present nothing but the following consideration. You see I have some two or three months left me to live--perhaps four; well, supposing that when I have but a month or two more, I take a fancy for some "good deed" that needs both trouble and time, like this business of our doctor friend, for instance: why, I shall have to give up the idea of it and take to something else--some LITTLE good deed, MORE WITHIN MY MEANS, eh? Isn't that an amusing idea!' "Poor Bachmatoff was much impressed--painfully so. He took me all the way home; not attempting to console me, but behaving with the greatest delicacy. On taking leave he pressed my hand warmly and asked permission to come and see me. I replied that if he came to me as a 'comforter,' so to speak (for he would be in that capacity whether he spoke to me in a soothing manner or only kept silence, as I pointed out to him), he would but remind me each time of my approaching death! He shrugged his shoulders, but quite agreed with me; and we parted better friends than I had expected. "But that evening and that night were sown the first seeds of my 'last conviction.' I seized greedily on my new idea; I thirstily drank in all its different aspects (I did not sleep a wink that night!), and the deeper I went into it the more my being seemed to merge itself in it, and the more alarmed I became. A dreadful terror came over me at last, and did not leave me all next day. "Sometimes, thinking over this, I became quite numb with the terror of it; and I might well have deduced from this fact, that my 'last conviction' was eating into my being too fast and too seriously, and would undoubtedly come to its climax before long. And for the climax I needed greater determination than I yet possessed. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 251 "However, within three weeks my determination was taken, owing to a very strange circumstance. "Here on my paper, I make a note of all the figures and dates that come into my explanation. Of course, it is all the same to me, but just now--and perhaps only at this moment--I desire that all those who are to judge of my action should see clearly out of how logical a sequence of deductions has at length proceeded my 'last conviction.' "I have said above that the determination needed by me for the accomplishment of my final resolve, came to hand not through any sequence of causes, but thanks to a certain strange circumstance which had perhaps no connection whatever with the matter at issue. Ten days ago Rogojin called upon me about certain business of his own with which I have nothing to do at present. I had never seen Rogojin before, but had often heard about him. "I gave him all the information he needed, and he very soon took his departure; so that, since he only came for the purpose of gaining the information, the matter might have been expected to end there. "But he interested me too much, and all that day I was under the influence of strange thoughts connected with him, and I determined to return his visit the next day. "Rogojin was evidently by no means pleased to see me, and hinted, delicately, that he saw no reason why our acquaintance should continue. For all that, however, I spent a very interesting hour, and so, I dare say, did he. There was so great a contrast between us that I am sure we must both have felt it; anyhow, I felt it acutely. Here was I, with my days numbered, and he, a man in the full vigour of life, living in the present, without the slightest thought for 'final convictions,' or numbers, or days, or, in fact, for anything but that which-which--well, which he was mad about, if he will excuse me the expression--as a feeble author who cannot express his ideas properly. "In spite of his lack of amiability, I could not help seeing, in Rogojin a man of intellect and sense; and although, perhaps, there was little in the outside world which was of. interest to him, still he was clearly a man with eyes to see. "I hinted nothing to him about my 'final conviction,' but it appeared to me that he had guessed it from my words. He remained silent--he is a terribly silent man. I remarked to him, as I rose to depart, that, in spite of the contrast and the wide differences between us two, les extremites se touchent ('extremes meet,' as I explained to him in Russian); so that maybe he was not so far from my final conviction as appeared. "His only reply to this was a sour grimace. He rose and looked for my cap, and placed it in my hand, and led me out of the house--that dreadful gloomy house of his--to all appearances, of course, as though I were leaving of my own accord, and he were simply seeing me to the door out of politeness. His house impressed me much; it is like a burial-ground, he seems to like it, which is, however, quite natural. Such a full life as he leads is so overflowing with absorbing interests that he has little need of assistance from his surroundings. "The visit to Rogojin exhausted me terribly. Besides, I had felt ill since the morning; and by evening I was so weak that I took to my bed, and was in high fever at intervals, and even delirious. Colia sat with me until eleven o'clock. "Yet I remember all he talked about, and every word we said, though whenever my eyes closed for a moment I could picture nothing but the image of Surikoff just in the act of finding a million roubles. He could not make up his mind what to do with the money, and tore his hair over it. He trembled with fear that somebody would rob him, and at last he decided to bury it in the ground. I persuaded him that, instead of putting it all away uselessly underground, he had better melt it down and make a golden coffin out of it for his starved child, and then dig up the little one and put her into the golden coffin. Surikoff accepted this suggestion, I by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 252 thought, with tears of gratitude, and immediately commenced to carry out my design. "I thought I spat on the ground and left him in disgust. Colia told me, when I quite recovered my senses, that I had not been asleep for a moment, but that I had spoken to him about Surikoff the whole while. "At moments I was in a state of dreadful weakness and misery, so that Colia was greatly disturbed when he left me. "When I arose to lock the door after him, I suddenly called to mind a picture I had noticed at Rogojin's in one of his gloomiest rooms, over the door. He had pointed it out to me himself as we walked past it, and I believe I must have stood a good five minutes in front of it. There was nothing artistic about it, but the picture made me feel strangely uncomfortable. It represented Christ just taken down from the cross. It seems to me that painters as a rule represent the Saviour, both on the cross and taken down from it, with great beauty still upon His face. This marvellous beauty they strive to preserve even in His moments of deepest agony and passion. But there was no such beauty in Rogojin's picture. This was the presentment of a poor mangled body which had evidently suffered unbearable anguish even before its crucifixion, full of wounds and bruises, marks of the violence of soldiers and people, and of the bitterness of the moment when He had fallen with the cross--all this combined with the anguish of the actual crucifixion. "The face was depicted as though still suffering; as though the body, only just dead, was still almost quivering with agony. The picture was one of pure nature, for the face was not beautified by the artist, but was left as it would naturally be, whosoever the sufferer, after such anguish. "I know that the earliest Christian faith taught that the Saviour suffered actually and not figuratively, and that nature was allowed her own way even while His body was on the cross. "It is strange to look on this dreadful picture of the mangled corpse of the Saviour, and to put this question to oneself: 'Supposing that the disciples, the future apostles, the women who had followed Him and stood by the cross, all of whom believed in and worshipped Him--supposing that they saw this tortured body, this face so mangled and bleeding and bruised (and they MUST have so seen it)--how could they have gazed upon the dreadful sight and yet have believed that He would rise again?' "The thought steps in, whether one likes it or no, that death is so terrible and so powerful, that even He who conquered it in His miracles during life was unable to triumph over it at the last. He who called to Lazarus, 'Lazarus, come forth!' and the dead man lived--He was now Himself a prey to nature and death. Nature appears to one, looking at this picture, as some huge, implacable, dumb monster; or still better--a stranger simile--some enormous mechanical engine of modern days which has seized and crushed and swallowed up a great and invaluable Being, a Being worth nature and all her laws, worth the whole earth, which was perhaps created merely for the sake of the advent of that Being. "This blind, dumb, implacable, eternal, unreasoning force is well shown in the picture, and the absolute subordination of all men and things to it is so well expressed that the idea unconsciously arises in the mind of anyone who looks at it. All those faithful people who were gazing at the cross and its mutilated occupant must have suffered agony of mind that evening; for they must have felt that all their hopes and almost all their faith had been shattered at a blow. They must have separated in terror and dread that night, though each perhaps carried away with him one great thought which was never eradicated from his mind for ever afterwards. If this great Teacher of theirs could have seen Himself after the Crucifixion, how could He have consented to mount the Cross and to die as He did? This thought also comes into the mind of the man who gazes at this picture. I thought of all this by snatches probably between my attacks of delirium--for an hour and a half or so before Colia's departure. "Can there be an appearance of that which has no form? And yet it seemed to me, at certain moments, that I by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 253 beheld in some strange and impossible form, that dark, dumb, irresistibly powerful, eternal force. "I thought someone led me by the hand and showed me, by the light of a candle, a huge, loathsome insect, which he assured me was that very force, that very almighty, dumb, irresistible Power, and laughed at the indignation with which I received this information. In my room they always light the little lamp before my icon for the night; it gives a feeble flicker of light, but it is strong enough to see by dimly, and if you sit just under it you can even read by it. I think it was about twelve or a little past that night. I had not slept a wink, and was lying with my eyes wide open, when suddenly the door opened, and in came Rogojin. "He entered, and shut the door behind him. Then he silently gazed at me and went quickly to the corner of the room where the lamp was burning and sat down underneath it. "I was much surprised, and looked at him expectantly. "Rogojin only leaned his elbow on the table and silently stared at me. So passed two or three minutes, and I recollect that his silence hurt and offended me very much. Why did he not speak? "That his arrival at this time of night struck me as more or less strange may possibly be the case; but I remember I was by no means amazed at it. On the contrary, though I had not actually told him my thought in the morning, yet I know he understood it; and this thought was of such a character that it would not be anything very remarkable, if one were to come for further talk about it at any hour of night, however late. "I thought he must have come for this purpose. "In the morning we had parted not the best of friends; I remember he looked at me with disagreeable sarcasm once or twice; and this same look I observed in his eyes now--which was the cause of the annoyance I felt. "I did not for a moment suspect that I was delirious and that this Rogojin was but the result of fever and excitement. I had not the slightest idea of such a theory at first. "Meanwhile he continued to sit and stare jeeringly at me. "I angrily turned round in bed and made up my mind that I would not say a word unless he did; so I rested silently on my pillow determined to remain dumb, if it were to last till morning. I felt resolved that he should speak first. Probably twenty minutes or so passed in this way. Suddenly the idea struck me--what if this is an apparition and not Rogojin himself? "Neither during my illness nor at any previous time had I ever seen an apparition;--but I had always thought, both when I was a little boy, and even now, that if I were to see one I should die on the spot--though I don't believe in ghosts. And yet NOW, when the idea struck me that this was a ghost and not Rogojin at all, I was not in the least alarmed. Nay--the thought actually irritated me. Strangely enough, the decision of the question as to whether this were a ghost or Rogojin did not, for some reason or other, interest me nearly so much as it ought to have done;--I think I began to muse about something altogether different. For instance, I began to wonder why Rogojin, who had been in dressing--gown and slippers when I saw him at home, had now put on a dress-coat and white waistcoat and tie? I also thought to myself, I remember--'if this is a ghost, and I am not afraid of it, why don't I approach it and verify my suspicions? Perhaps I am afraid--' And no sooner did this last idea enter my head than an icy blast blew over me; I felt a chill down my backbone and my knees shook. "At this very moment, as though divining my thoughts, Rogojin raised his head from his arm and began to part his lips as though he were going to laugh--but he continued to stare at me as persistently as before. "I felt so furious with him at this moment that I longed to rush at him; but as I had sworn that he should speak by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 254 first, I continued to lie still--and the more willingly, as I was still by no means satisfied as to whether it really was Rogojin or not. "I cannot remember how long this lasted; I cannot recollect, either, whether consciousness forsook me at intervals, or not. But at last Rogojin rose, staring at me as intently as ever, but not smiling any longer,--and walking very softly, almost on tip- toes, to the door, he opened it, went out, and shut it behind him. "I did not rise from my bed, and I don't know how long I lay with my eyes open, thinking. I don't know what I thought about, nor how I fell asleep or became insensible; but I awoke next morning after nine o'clock when they knocked at my door. My general orders are that if I don't open the door and call, by nine o'clock, Matreona is to come and bring my tea. When I now opened the door to her, the thought suddenly struck me--how could he have come in, since the door was locked? I made inquiries and found that Rogojin himself could not possibly have come in, because all our doors were locked for the night. "Well, this strange circumstance--which I have described with so much detail--was the ultimate cause which led me to taking my final determination. So that no logic, or logical deductions, had anything to do with my resolve;--it was simply a matter of disgust. "It was impossible for me to go on living when life was full of such detestable, strange, tormenting forms. This ghost had humiliated me;--nor could I bear to be subordinate to that dark, horrible force which was embodied in the form of the loathsome insect. It was only towards evening, when I had quite made up my mind on this point, that I began to feel easier. VII. "I HAD a small pocket pistol. I had procured it while still a boy, at that droll age when the stories of duels and highwaymen begin to delight one, and when one imagines oneself nobly standing fire at some future day, in a duel. "There were a couple of old bullets in the bag which contained the pistol, and powder enough in an old flask for two or three charges. "The pistol was a wretched thing, very crooked and wouldn't carry farther than fifteen paces at the most. However, it would send your skull flying well enough if you pressed the muzzle of it against your temple. "I determined to die at Pavlofsk at sunrise, in the park--so as to make no commotion in the house. "This 'explanation' will make the matter clear enough to the police. Students of psychology, and anyone else who likes, may make what they please of it. I should not like this paper, however, to be made public. I request the prince to keep a copy himself, and to give a copy to Aglaya Ivanovna Epanchin. This is my last will and testament. As for my skeleton, I bequeath it to the Medical Academy for the benefit of science. "I recognize no jurisdiction over myself, and I know that I am now beyond the power of laws and judges. "A little while ago a very amusing idea struck me. What if I were now to commit some terrible crime--murder ten fellow-creatures, for instance, or anything else that is thought most shocking and dreadful in this world--what a dilemma my judges would be in, with a criminal who only has a fortnight to live in any case, now that the rack and other forms of torture are abolished! Why, I should die comfortably in their own hospital--in a warm, clean room, with an attentive doctor--probably much more comfortably than I should at home. "I don't understand why people in my position do not oftener indulge in such ideas--if only for a joke! Perhaps by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 255 they do! Who knows! There are plenty of merry souls among us! "But though I do not recognize any jurisdiction over myself, still I know that I shall be judged, when I am nothing but a voiceless lump of clay; therefore I do not wish to go before I have left a word of reply--the reply of a free man--not one forced to justify himself--oh no! I have no need to ask forgiveness of anyone. I wish to say a word merely because I happen to desire it of my own free will. "Here, in the first place, comes a strange thought! "Who, in the name of what Law, would think of disputing my full personal right over the fortnight of life left to me? What jurisdiction can be brought to bear upon the case? Who would wish me, not only to be sentenced, but to endure the sentence to the end? Surely there exists no man who would wish such a thing--why should anyone desire it? For the sake of morality? Well, I can understand that if I were to make an attempt upon my own life while in the enjoyment of full health and vigour--my life which might have been 'useful,' etc., etc.--morality might reproach me, according to the old routine, for disposing of my life without permission--or whatever its tenet may be. But now, NOW, when my sentence is out and my days numbered! How can morality have need of my last breaths, and why should I die listening to the consolations offered by the prince, who, without doubt, would not omit to demonstrate that death is actually a benefactor to me? (Christians like him always end up with that--it is their pet theory.) And what do they want with their ridiculous 'Pavlofsk trees'? To sweeten my last hours? Cannot they understand that the more I forget myself, the more I let myself become attached to these last illusions of life and love, by means of which they try to hide from me Meyer's wall, and all that is so plainly written on it--the more unhappy they make me? What is the use of all your nature to me--all your parks and trees, your sunsets and sunrises, your blue skies and your self-satisfied faces--when all this wealth of beauty and happiness begins with the fact that it accounts me--only me--one too many! What is the good of all this beauty and glory to me, when every second, every moment, I cannot but be aware that this little fly which buzzes around my head in the sun's rays--even this little fly is a sharer and participator in all the glory of the universe, and knows its place and is happy in it;--while I--only I, am an outcast, and have been blind to the fact hitherto, thanks to my simplicity! Oh! I know well how the prince and others would like me, instead of indulging in all these wicked words of my own, to sing, to the glory and triumph of morality, that well-known verse of Gilbert's: "'0, puissent voir longtemps votre beaute sacree Tant d'amis, sourds a mes adieux! Qu'ils meurent pleins de jours, que leur mort soit pleuree, Qu'un ami leur ferme les yeux!' "But believe me, believe me, my simple-hearted friends, that in this highly moral verse, in this academical blessing to the world in general in the French language, is hidden the intensest gall and bitterness; but so well concealed is the venom, that I dare say the poet actually persuaded himself that his words were full of the tears of pardon and peace, instead of the bitterness of disappointment and malice, and so died in the delusion. "Do you know there is a limit of ignominy, beyond which man's consciousness of shame cannot go, and after which begins satisfaction in shame? Well, of course humility is a great force in that sense, I admit that--though not in the sense in which religion accounts humility to be strength! "Religion!--I admit eternal life--and perhaps I always did admit it. "Admitted that consciousness is called into existence by the will of a Higher Power; admitted that this consciousness looks out upon the world and says 'I am;' and admitted that the Higher Power wills that the consciousness so called into existence, be suddenly extinguished (for so--for some unexplained reason--it is and must be)--still there comes the eternal question--why must I be humble through all this? Is it not enough that I am devoured, without my being expected to bless the power that devours me? Surely--surely I need not suppose that Somebody--there--will be offended because I do not wish to live out the fortnight allowed me? I don't believe it. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 256 "It is much simpler, and far more likely, to believe that my death is needed--the death of an insignificant atom--in order to fulfil the general harmony of the universe--in order to make even some plus or minus in the sum of existence. Just as every day the death of numbers of beings is necessary because without their annihilation the rest cannot live on--(although we must admit that the idea is not a particularly grand one in itself!) "However--admit the fact! Admit that without such perpetual devouring of one another the world cannot continue to exist, or could never have been organized--I am ever ready to confess that I cannot understand why this is so--but I'll tell you what I DO know, for certain. If I have once been given to understand and realize that I AM--what does it matter to me that the world is organized on a system full of errors and that otherwise it cannot be organized at all? Who will or can judge me after this? Say what you like--the thing is impossible and unjust! "And meanwhile I have never been able, in spite of my great desire to do so, to persuade myself that there is no future existence, and no Providence. "The fact of the matter is that all this DOES exist, but that we know absolutely nothing about the future life and its laws! "But it is so difficult, and even impossible to understand, that surely I am not to be blamed because I could not fathom the incomprehensible? "Of course I know they say that one must be obedient, and of course, too, the prince is one of those who say so: that one must be obedient without questions, out of pure goodness of heart, and that for my worthy conduct in this matter I shall meet with reward in another world. We degrade God when we attribute our own ideas to Him, out of annoyance that we cannot fathom His ways. "Again, I repeat, I cannot be blamed because I am unable to understand that which it is not given to mankind to fathom. Why am I to be judged because I could not comprehend the Will and Laws of Providence? No, we had better drop religion. "And enough of this. By the time I have got so far in the reading of my document the sun will be up and the huge force of his rays will be acting upon the living world. So be it. I shall die gazing straight at the great Fountain of life and power; I do not want this life! "If I had had the power to prevent my own birth I should certainly never have consented to accept existence under such ridiculous conditions. However, I have the power to end my existence, although I do but give back days that are already numbered. It is an insignificant gift, and my revolt is equally insignificant. "Final explanation: I die, not in the least because I am unable to support these next three weeks. Oh no, I should find strength enough, and if I wished it I could obtain consolation from the thought of the injury that is done me. But I am not a French poet, and I do not desire such consolation. And finally, nature has so limited my capacity for work or activity of any kind, in allotting me but three weeks of time, that suicide is about the only thing left that I can begin and end in the time of my own free will. "Perhaps then I am anxious to take advantage of my last chance of doing something for myself. A protest is sometimes no small thing." The explanation was finished; Hippolyte paused at last. There is, in extreme cases, a final stage of cynical candour when a nervous man, excited, and beside himself with emotion, will be afraid of nothing and ready for any sort of scandal, nay, glad of it. The extraordinary, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 257 almost unnatural, tension of the nerves which upheld Hippolyte up to this point, had now arrived at this final stage. This poor feeble boy of eighteen--exhausted by disease--looked for all the world as weak and frail as a leaflet torn from its parent tree and trembling in the breeze; but no sooner had his eye swept over his audience, for the first time during the whole of the last hour, than the most contemptuous, the most haughty expression of repugnance lighted up his face. He defied them all, as it were. But his hearers were indignant, too; they rose to their feet with annoyance. Fatigue, the wine consumed, the strain of listening so long, all added to the disagreeable impression which the reading had made upon them. Suddenly Hippolyte jumped up as though he had been shot. "The sun is rising," he cried, seeing the gilded tops of the trees, and pointing to them as to a miracle. "See, it is rising now!" "Well, what then? Did you suppose it wasn't going to rise?" asked Ferdishenko. "It's going to be atrociously hot again all day," said Gania, with an air of annoyance, taking his hat. "A month of this... Are you coming home, Ptitsin?" Hippolyte listened to this in amazement, almost amounting to stupefaction. Suddenly he became deadly pale and shuddered. "You manage your composure too awkwardly. I see you wish to insult me," he cried to Gania. "You--you are a cur!" He looked at Gania with an expression of malice. "What on earth is the matter with the boy? What phenomenal feeble-mindedness!" exclaimed Ferdishenko. "Oh, he's simply a fool," said Gania. Hippolyte braced himself up a little. "I understand, gentlemen," he began, trembling as before, and stumbling over every word," that I have deserved your resentment, and--and am sorry that I should have troubled you with this raving nonsense" (pointing to his article),"or rather, I am sorry that I have not troubled you enough." He smiled feebly. "Have I troubled you, Evgenie Pavlovitch?" He suddenly turned on Evgenie with this question. "Tell me now, have I troubled you or not?" "Well, it was a little drawn out, perhaps; but--" "Come, speak out! Don't lie, for once in your life--speak out!" continued Hippolyte, quivering with agitation. "Oh, my good sir, I assure you it's entirely the same to me. Please leave me in peace," said Evgenie, angrily, turning his back on him. "Good-night, prince," said Ptitsin, approaching his host. "What are you thinking of? Don't go, he'll blow his brains out in a minute!" cried Vera Lebedeff, rushing up to Hippolyte and catching hold of his hands in a torment of alarm. "What are you thinking of? He said he would blow his brains out at sunrise." "Oh, he won't shoot himself!" cried several voices, sarcastically. "Gentlemen, you'd better look out," cried Colia, also seizing Hippolyte by the hand. "Just look at him! Prince, what are you thinking of?" Vera and Colia, and Keller, and Burdovsky were all crowding round Hippolyte now and holding him down. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 258 "He has the right--the right--"-murmured Burdovsky. "Excuse me, prince, but what are your arrangements?" asked Lebedeff, tipsy and exasperated, going up to Muishkin. "What do you mean by 'arrangements'?" "No, no, excuse me! I'm master of this house, though I do not wish to lack respect towards you. You are master of the house too, in a way; but I can't allow this sort of thing--" "He won't shoot himself; the boy is only playing the fool," said General Ivolgin, suddenly and unexpectedly, with indignation. "I know he won't, I know he won't, general; but I--I'm master here!" "Listen, Mr. Terentieff," said Ptitsin, who had bidden the prince good-night, and was now holding out his hand to Hippolyte; "I think you remark in that manuscript of yours, that you bequeath your skeleton to the Academy. Are you referring to your own skeleton--I mean, your very bones?" "Yes, my bones, I--" "Quite so, I see; because, you know, little mistakes have occurred now and then. There was a case--" Why do you tease him?" cried the prince, suddenly. "You've moved him to tears," added Ferdishenko. But Hippolyte was by no means weeping. He was about to move from his place, when his four guards rushed at him and seized him once more. There was a laugh at this. "He led up to this on purpose. He took the trouble of writing all that so that people should come and grab him by the arm," observed Rogojin. "Good-night, prince. What a time we've sat here, my very bones ache!" "If you really intended to shoot yourself, Terentieff," said Evgenie Pavlovitch, laughing, "if I were you, after all these compliments, I should just not shoot myself in order to vex them all." "They are very anxious to see me blow my brains out," said Hippolyte, bitterly. "Yes, they'll be awfully annoyed if they don't see it." "Then you think they won't see it?" "I am not trying to egg you on. On the contrary, I think it very likely that you may shoot yourself; but the principal thing is to keep cool," said Evgenie with a drawl, and with great condescension. "I only now perceive what a terrible mistake I made in reading this article to them," said Hippolyte, suddenly, addressing Evgenie, and looking at him with an expression of trust and confidence, as though he were applying to a friend for counsel. "Yes, it's a droll situation; I really don't know what advice to give you," replied Evgenie, laughing. Hippolyte gazed steadfastly at him, but said nothing. To look at him one might have supposed that he was unconscious at intervals. "Excuse me," said Lebedeff, "but did you observe the young gentleman's style? 'I'll go and blow my brains out in the park,' says he,' so as not to disturb anyone.' He thinks he won't disturb anybody if he goes three yards away, into the park, and blows his brains out there." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 259 "Gentlemen--" began the prince. "No, no, excuse me, most revered prince," Lebedeff interrupted, excitedly. "Since you must have observed yourself that this is no joke, and since at least half your guests must also have concluded that after all that has been said this youth MUST blow his brains out for honour's sake--I--as master of this house, and before these witnesses, now call upon you to take steps." "Yes, but what am I to do, Lebedeff? What steps am I to take? I am ready." "I'll tell you. In the first place he must immediately deliver up the pistol which he boasted of, with all its appurtenances. If he does this I shall consent to his being allowed to spend the night in this house--considering his feeble state of health, and of course conditionally upon his being under proper supervision. But tomorrow he must go elsewhere. Excuse me, prince! Should he refuse to deliver up his weapon, then I shall instantly seize one of his arms and General Ivolgin the other, and we shall hold him until the police arrive and take the matter into their own hands. Mr. Ferdishenko will kindly fetch them." At this there was a dreadful noise; Lebedeff danced about in his excitement; Ferdishenko prepared to go for the police; Gania frantically insisted that it was all nonsense, "for nobody was going to shoot themselves." Evgenie Pavlovitch said nothing. "Prince," whispered Hippolyte, suddenly, his eyes all ablaze, "you don't suppose that I did not foresee all this hatred?" He looked at the prince as though he expected him to reply, for a moment. "Enough!" he added at length, and addressing the whole company, he cried: "It's all my fault, gentlemen! Lebedeff, here's the key," (he took out a small bunch of keys); "this one, the last but one--Colia will show you--Colia, where's Colia?" he cried, looking straight at Colia and not seeing him. "Yes, he'll show you; he packed the bag with me this morning. Take him up, Colia; my bag is upstairs in the prince's study, under the table. Here's the key, and in the little case you'll find my pistol and the powder, and all. Colia packed it himself, Mr. Lebedeff; he'll show you; but it's on condition that tomorrow morning, when I leave for Petersburg, you will give me back my pistol, do you hear? I do this for the prince's sake, not yours." "Capital, that's much better!" cried Lebedeff, and seizing the key he made off in haste. Colia stopped a moment as though he wished to say something; but Lebedeff dragged him away. Hippolyte looked around at the laughing guests. The prince observed that his teeth were chattering as though in a violent attack of ague. "What brutes they all are!" he whispered to the prince. Whenever he addressed him he lowered his voice. "Let them alone, you're too weak now--" Yes, directly; I'll go away directly. I'll--" Suddenly he embraced Muishkin. "Perhaps you think I am mad, eh?" he asked him, laughing very strangely. "No, but you--" "Directly, directly! Stand still a moment, I wish to look in your eyes; don't speak--stand so--let me look at you! I am bidding farewell to mankind." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 260 He stood so for ten seconds, gazing at the prince, motionless, deadly pale, his temples wet with perspiration; he held the prince's hand in a strange grip, as though afraid to let him go. "Hippolyte, Hippolyte, what is the matter with you?" cried Muishkin. "Directly! There, that's enough. I'll lie down directly. I must drink to the sun's health. I wish to--I insist upon it! Let go!" He seized a glass from the table, broke away from the prince, and in a moment had reached the terrace steps. The prince made after him, but it so happened that at this moment Evgenie Pavlovitch stretched out his hand to say good-night. The next instant there was a general outcry, and then followed a few moments of indescribable excitement. Reaching the steps, Hippolyte had paused, holding the glass in his left hand while he put his right hand into his coat pocket. Keller insisted afterwards that he had held his right hand in his pocket all the while, when he was speaking to the prince, and that he had held the latter's shoulder with his left hand only. This circumstance, Keller affirmed, had led him to feel some suspicion from the first. However this may be, Keller ran after Hippolyte, but he was too late. He caught sight of something flashing in Hippolyte's right hand, and saw that it was a pistol. He rushed at him, but at that very instant Hippolyte raised the pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger. There followed a sharp metallic click, but no report. When Keller seized the would-be suicide, the latter fell forward into his arms, probably actually believing that he was shot. Keller had hold of the pistol now. Hippolyte was immediately placed in a chair, while the whole company thronged around excitedly, talking and asking each other questions. Every one of them had heard the snap of the trigger, and yet they saw a live and apparently unharmed man before them. Hippolyte himself sat quite unconscious of what was going on, and gazed around with a senseless expression. Lebedeff and Colia came rushing up at this moment. "What is it?" someone asked, breathlessly--"A misfire?" "Perhaps it wasn't loaded," said several voices. "It's loaded all right," said Keller, examining the pistol, "but--" "What! did it miss fire?" "There was no cap in it," Keller announced. It would be difficult to describe the pitiable scene that now followed. The first sensation of alarm soon gave place to amusement; some burst out laughing loud and heartily, and seemed to find a malicious satisfaction in the joke. Poor Hippolyte sobbed hysterically; he wrung his hands; he approached everyone in turn--even Ferdishenko--and took them by both hands, and swore solemnly that he had forgotten--absolutely forgotten-- "accidentally, and not on purpose,"--to put a cap in--that he "had ten of them, at least, in his pocket." He pulled them out and showed them to everyone; he protested that he had not liked to put one in beforehand for fear of an accidental explosion in his pocket. That he had thought he would have lots of time to put it in by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 261 afterwards--when required--and, that, in the heat of the moment, he had forgotten all about it. He threw himself upon the prince, then on Evgenie Pavlovitch. He entreated Keller to give him back the pistol, and he'd soon show them all that "his honour--his honour,"--but he was "dishonoured, now, for ever!" He fell senseless at last--and was carried into the prince's study. Lebedeff, now quite sobered down, sent for a doctor; and he and his daughter, with Burdovsky and General Ivolgin, remained by the sick man's couch. When he was carried away unconscious, Keller stood in the middle of the room, and made the following declaration to the company in general, in a loud tone of voice, with emphasis upon each word. "Gentlemen, if any one of you casts any doubt again, before me, upon Hippolyte's good faith, or hints that the cap was forgotten intentionally, or suggests that this unhappy boy was acting a part before us, I beg to announce that the person so speaking shall account to me for his words." No one replied. The company departed very quickly, in a mass. Ptitsin, Gania, and Rogojin went away together. The prince was much astonished that Evgenie Pavlovitch changed his mind, and took his departure without the conversation he had requested. "Why, you wished to have a talk with me when the others left?" he said. "Quite so," said Evgenie, sitting down suddenly beside him, "but I have changed my mind for the time being. I confess, I am too disturbed, and so, I think, are you; and the matter as to which I wished to consult you is too serious to tackle with one's mind even a little disturbed; too serious both for myself and for you. You see, prince, for once in my life I wish to perform an absolutely honest action, that is, an action with no ulterior motive; and I think I am hardly in a condition to talk of it just at this moment, and--and--well, we'll discuss it another time. Perhaps the matter may gain in clearness if we wait for two or three days--just the two or three days which I must spend in Petersburg." Here he rose again from his chair, so that it seemed strange that he should have thought it worth while to sit down at all. The prince thought, too, that he looked vexed and annoyed, and not nearly so friendly towards himself as he had been earlier in the night. "I suppose you will go to the sufferer's bedside now?" he added. "Yes, I am afraid..." began the prince. "Oh, you needn't fear! He'll live another six weeks all right. Very likely he will recover altogether; but I strongly advise you to pack him off tomorrow." "I think I may have offended him by saying nothing just now. I am afraid he may suspect that I doubted his good faith,--about shooting himself, you know. What do you think, Evgenie Pavlovitch?" "Not a bit of it! You are much too good to him; you shouldn't care a hang about what he thinks. I have heard of such things before, but never came across, till tonight, a man who would actually shoot himself in order to gain a vulgar notoriety, or blow out his brains for spite, if he finds that people don't care to pat him on the by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 262 back for his sanguinary intentions. But what astonishes me more than anything is the fellow's candid confession of weakness. You'd better get rid of him tomorrow, in any case. "Do you think he will make another attempt?" "Oh no, not he, not now! But you have to be very careful with this sort of gentleman. Crime is too often the last resource of these petty nonentities. This young fellow is quite capable of cutting the throats of ten people, simply for a lark, as he told us in his 'explanation.' I assure you those confounded words of his will not let me sleep." "I think you disturb yourself too much." "What an extraordinary person you are, prince! Do you mean to say that you doubt the fact that he is capable of murdering ten men?" "I daren't say, one way or the other; all this is very strange-- but--" "Well, as you like, just as you like," said Evgenie Pavlovitch, irritably. "Only you are such a plucky fellow, take care you don't get included among the ten victims!" "Oh, he is much more likely not to kill anyone at all," said the prince, gazing thoughtfully at Evgenie. The latter laughed disagreeably. "Well, au revoir! Did you observe that he 'willed' a copy of his confession to Aglaya Ivanovna?" "Yes, I did; I am thinking of it." "In connection with 'the ten,' eh?" laughed Evgenie, as he left the room. An hour later, towards four o'clock, the prince went into the park. He had endeavoured to fall asleep, but could not, owing to the painful beating of his heart. He had left things quiet and peaceful; the invalid was fast asleep, and the doctor, who had been called in, had stated that there was no special danger. Lebedeff, Colia, and Burdovsky were lying down in the sick-room, ready to take it in turns to watch. There was nothing to fear, therefore, at home. But the prince's mental perturbation increased every moment. He wandered about the park, looking absently around him, and paused in astonishment when he suddenly found himself in the empty space with the rows of chairs round it, near the Vauxhall. The look of the place struck him as dreadful now: so he turned round and went by the path which he had followed with the Epanchins on the way to the band, until he reached the green bench which Aglaya had pointed out for their rendezvous. He sat down on it and suddenly burst into a loud fit of laughter, immediately followed by a feeling of irritation. His disturbance of mind continued; he felt that he must go away somewhere, anywhere. Above his head some little bird sang out, of a sudden; he began to peer about for it among the leaves. Suddenly the bird darted out of the tree and away, and instantly he thought of the "fly buzzing about in the sun's rays" that Hippolyte had talked of; how that it knew its place and was a participator in the universal life, while he alone was an "outcast." This picture had impressed him at the time, and he meditated upon it now. An old, forgotten memory awoke in his brain, and suddenly burst into clearness and light. It was a recollection of Switzerland, during the first year of his cure, the very first months. At that time he had been pretty nearly an idiot still; he could not speak properly, and had difficulty in understanding when others spoke to him. He climbed the mountain-side, one sunny morning, and wandered long and aimlessly with a certain thought in his by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 263 brain, which would not become clear. Above him was the blazing sky, below, the lake; all around was the horizon, clear and infinite. He looked out upon this, long and anxiously. He remembered how he had stretched out his arms towards the beautiful, boundless blue of the horizon, and wept, and wept. What had so tormented him was the idea that he was a stranger to all this, that he was outside this glorious festival. What was this universe? What was this grand, eternal pageant to which he had yearned from his childhood up, and in which he could never take part? Every morning the same magnificent sun; every morning the same rainbow in the waterfall; every evening the same glow on the snow-mountains. Every little fly that buzzed in the sun's rays was a singer in the universal chorus, "knew its place, and was happy in it. "Every blade of grass grew and was happy. Everything knew its path and loved it, went forth with a song and returned with a song; only he knew nothing, understood nothing, neither men nor words, nor any of nature's voices; he was a stranger and an outcast. Oh, he could not then speak these words, or express all he felt! He had been tormented dumbly; but now it appeared to him that he must have said these very words--even then--and that Hippolyte must have taken his picture of the little fly from his tears and words of that time. He was sure of it, and his heart beat excitedly at the thought, he knew not why. He fell asleep on the bench; but his mental disquiet continued through his slumbers. Just before he dozed off, the idea of Hippolyte murdering ten men flitted through his brain, and he smiled at the absurdity of such a thought. Around him all was quiet; only the flutter and whisper of the leaves broke the silence, but broke it only to cause it to appear yet more deep and still. He dreamed many dreams as he sat there, and all were full of disquiet, so that he shuddered every moment. At length a woman seemed to approach him. He knew her, oh! he knew her only too well. He could always name her and recognize her anywhere; but, strange, she seemed to have quite a different face from hers, as he had known it, and he felt a tormenting desire to be able to say she was not the same woman. In the face before him there was such dreadful remorse and horror that he thought she must be a criminal, that she must have just committed some awful crime. Tears were trembling on her white cheek. She beckoned him, but placed her finger on her lip as though to warn him that he must follow her very quietly. His heart froze within him. He wouldn't, he COULDN'T confess her to be a criminal, and yet he felt that something dreadful would happen the next moment, something which would blast his whole life. She seemed to wish to show him something, not far off, in the park. He rose from his seat in order to follow her, when a bright, clear peal of laughter rang out by his side. He felt somebody's hand suddenly in his own, seized it, pressed it hard, and awoke. Before him stood Aglaya, laughing aloud. VIII. SHE laughed, but she was rather angry too. "He's asleep! You were asleep," she said, with contemptuous surprise. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 264 "Is it really you?" muttered the prince, not quite himself as yet, and recognizing her with a start of amazement. "Oh yes, of course," he added, "this is our rendezvous. I fell asleep here." "So I saw." "Did no one awake me besides yourself? Was there no one else here? I thought there was another woman." "There was another woman here?" At last he was wide awake. "It was a dream, of course," he said, musingly. "Strange that I should have a dream like that at such a moment. Sit down--" He took her hand and seated her on the bench; then sat down beside her and reflected. Aglaya did not begin the conversation, but contented herself with watching her companion intently. He looked back at her, but at times it was clear that he did not see her and was not thinking of her. Aglaya began to flush up. "Oh yes!" cried the prince, starting. "Hippolyte's suicide--" "What? At your house?" she asked, but without much surprise. "He was alive yesterday evening, wasn't he? How could you sleep here after that?" she cried, growing suddenly animated. "Oh, but he didn't kill himself; the pistol didn't go off." Aglaya insisted on hearing the whole story. She hurried the prince along, but interrupted him with all sorts of questions, nearly all of which were irrelevant. Among other things, she seemed greatly interested in every word that Evgenie Pavlovitch had said, and made the prince repeat that part of the story over and over again. "Well, that'll do; we must be quick," she concluded, after hearing all. "We have only an hour here, till eight; I must be home by then without fail, so that they may not find out that I came and sat here with you; but I've come on business. I have a great deal to say to you. But you have bowled me over considerably with your news. As to Hippolyte, I think his pistol was bound not to go off; it was more consistent with the whole affair. Are you sure he really wished to blow his brains out, and that there was no humbug about the matter?" "No humbug at all." "Very likely. So he wrote that you were to bring me a copy of his confession, did he? Why didn't you bring it?" "Why, he didn't die! I'll ask him for it, if you like." "Bring it by all means; you needn't ask him. He will be delighted, you may be sure; for, in all probability, he shot at himself simply in order that I might read his confession. Don't laugh at what I say, please, Lef Nicolaievitch, because it may very well be the case." "I'm not laughing. I am convinced, myself, that that may have been partly the reason. "You are convinced? You don't really mean to say you think that honestly?" asked Aglaya, extremely by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 265 surprised. She put her questions very quickly and talked fast, every now and then forgetting what she had begun to say, and not finishing her sentence. She seemed to be impatient to warn the prince about something or other. She was in a state of unusual excitement, and though she put on a brave and even defiant air, she seemed to be rather alarmed. She was dressed very simply, but this suited her well. She continually trembled and blushed, and she sat on the very edge of the seat. The fact that the prince confirmed her idea, about Hippolyte shooting himself that she might read his confession, surprised her greatly. "Of course," added the prince, "he wished us all to applaud his conduct--besides yourself." "How do you mean--applaud?" "Well--how am I to explain? He was very anxious that we should all come around him, and say we were so sorry for him, and that we loved him very much, and all that; and that we hoped he wouldn't kill himself, but remain alive. Very likely he thought more of you than the rest of us, because he mentioned you at such a moment, though perhaps he did not know himself that he had you in his mind's eye." "I don't understand you. How could he have me in view, and not be aware of it himself? And yet, I don't know--perhaps I do. Do you know I have intended to poison myself at least thirty times--ever since I was thirteen or so--and to write to my parents before I did it? I used to think how nice it would be to lie in my coffin, and have them all weeping over me and saying it was all their fault for being so cruel, and all that--what are you smiling at?" she added, knitting her brow. "What do YOU think of when you go mooning about alone? I suppose you imagine yourself a field- marshal, and think you have conquered Napoleon?" "Well, I really have thought something of the sort now and then, especially when just dozing off," laughed the prince. "Only it is the Austrians whom I conquer--not Napoleon." "I don't wish to joke with you, Lef Nicolaievitch. I shall see Hippolyte myself. Tell him so. As for you, I think you are behaving very badly, because it is not right to judge a man's soul as you are judging Hippolyte's. You have no gentleness, but only justice--so you are unjust." The prince reflected. "I think you are unfair towards me," he said. "There is nothing wrong in the thoughts I ascribe to Hippolyte; they are only natural. But of course I don't know for certain what he thought. Perhaps he thought nothing, but simply longed to see human faces once more, and to hear human praise and feel human affection. Who knows? Only it all came out wrong, somehow. Some people have luck, and everything comes out right with them; others have none, and never a thing turns out fortunately." "I suppose you have felt that in your own case," said Aglaya. "Yes, I have," replied the prince, quite unsuspicious of any irony in the remark. "H'm--well, at all events, I shouldn't have fallen asleep here, in your place. It wasn't nice of you, that. I suppose you fall asleep wherever you sit down?" "But I didn't sleep a wink all night. I walked and walked about, and went to where the music was--" "What music?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 266 "Where they played last night. Then I found this bench and sat down, and thought and thought--and at last I fell fast asleep." "Oh, is that it? That makes a difference, perhaps. What did you go to the bandstand for?" "I don't know; I---" "Very well--afterwards. You are always interrupting me. What woman was it you were dreaming about?" "It was--about--you saw her--" "Quite so; I understand. I understand quite well. You are very-- Well, how did she appear to you? What did she look like? No, I don't want to know anything about her," said Aglaya, angrily; "don't interrupt me--" She paused a moment as though getting breath, or trying to master her feeling of annoyance. "Look here; this is what I called you here for. I wish to make you a--to ask you to be my friend. What do you stare at me like that for?" she added, almost angrily. The prince certainly had darted a rather piercing look at her, and now observed that she had begun to blush violently. At such moments, the more Aglaya blushed, the angrier she grew with herself; and this was clearly expressed in her eyes, which flashed like fire. As a rule, she vented her wrath on her unfortunate companion, be it who it might. She was very conscious of her own shyness, and was not nearly so talkative as her sisters for this reason--in fact, at times she was much too quiet. When, therefore, she was bound to talk, especially at such delicate moments as this, she invariably did so with an air of haughty defiance. She always knew beforehand when she was going to blush, long before the blush came. "Perhaps you do not wish to accept my proposition?" she asked, gazing haughtily at the prince. "Oh yes, I do; but it is so unnecessary. I mean, I did not think you need make such a proposition," said the prince, looking confused. "What did you suppose, then? Why did you think I invited you out here? I suppose you think me a 'little fool,' as they all call me at home?" "I didn't know they called you a fool. I certainly don't think you one." "You don't think me one! Oh, dear me!--that's very clever of you; you put it so neatly, too." "In my opinion, you are far from a fool sometimes--in fact, you are very intelligent. You said a very clever thing just now about my being unjust because I had ONLY justice. I shall remember that, and think about it." Aglaya blushed with pleasure. All these changes in her expression came about so naturally and so rapidly--they delighted the prince; he watched her, and laughed. "Listen," she began again; "I have long waited to tell you all this, ever since the time when you sent me that letter--even before that. Half of what I have to say you heard yesterday. I consider you the most honest and upright of men--more honest and upright than any other man; and if anybody says that your mind is--is sometimes affected, you know--it is unfair. I always say so and uphold it, because even if your surface mind be a little affected (of course you will not feel angry with me for talking so--I am speaking from a higher point of view) yet your real mind is far better than all theirs put together. Such a mind as they have never even DREAMED of; because really, there are TWO minds-- the kind that matters, and the kind that doesn't matter. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 267 Isn't it so?" "May be! may be so!" said the prince, faintly; his heart was beating painfully. "I knew you would not misunderstand me," she said, triumphantly. "Prince S. and Evgenie Pavlovitch and Alexandra don't understand anything about these two kinds of mind, but, just fancy, mamma does!" "You are very like Lizabetha Prokofievna." "What! surely not?" said Aglaya. "Yes, you are, indeed." "Thank you; I am glad to be like mamma," she said, thoughtfully. "You respect her very much, don't you?" she added, quite unconscious of the naiveness of the question. "VERY much; and I am so glad that you have realized the fact." "I am very glad, too, because she is often laughed at by people. But listen to the chief point. I have long thought over the matter, and at last I have chosen you. I don't wish people to laugh at me; I don't wish people to think me a 'little fool.' I don't want to be chaffed. I felt all this of a sudden, and I refused Evgenie Pavlovitch flatly, because I am not going to be forever thrown at people's heads to be married. I want--I want-- well, I'll tell you, I wish to run away from home, and I have chosen you to help me." "Run away from home?" cried the prince. "Yes--yes--yes! Run away from home!" she repeated, in a transport of rage. "I won't, I won't be made to blush every minute by them all! I don't want to blush before Prince S. or Evgenie Pavlovitch, or anyone, and therefore I have chosen you. I shall tell you everything, EVERYTHING, even the most important things of all, whenever I like, and you are to hide nothing from me on your side. I want to speak to at least one person, as I would to myself. They have suddenly begun to say that I am waiting for you, and in love with you. They began this before you arrived here, and so I didn't show them the letter, and now they all say it, every one of them. I want to be brave, and be afraid of nobody. I don't want to go to their balls and things--I want to do good. I have long desired to run away, for I have been kept shut up for twenty years, and they are always trying to marry me off. I wanted to run away when I was fourteen years old--I was a little fool then, I know--but now I have worked it all out, and I have waited for you to tell me about foreign countries. I have never seen a single Gothic cathedral. I must go to Rome; I must see all the museums; I must study in Paris. All this last year I have been preparing and reading forbidden books. Alexandra and Adelaida are allowed to read anything they like, but I mayn't. I don't want to quarrel with my sisters, but I told my parents long ago that I wish to change my social position. I have decided to take up teaching, and I count on you because you said you loved children. Can we go in for education together--if not at once, then afterwards? We could do good together. I won't be a general's daughter any more! Tell me, are you a very learned man?" "Oh no; not at all." "Oh-h-h! I'm sorry for that. I thought you were. I wonder why I always thought so--but at all events you'll help me, won't you? Because I've chosen you, you know." "Aglaya Ivanovna, it's absurd." But I will, I WILL run away!" she cried--and her eyes flashed again with anger--"and if you don't agree I shall go and marry Gavrila Ardalionovitch! I won't be considered a horrible girl, and accused of goodness knows by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 268 what." "Are you out of your mind?" cried the prince, almost starting from his seat. "What do they accuse you of? Who accuses you?" "At home, everybody, mother, my sisters, Prince S., even that detestable Colia! If they don't say it, they think it. I told them all so to their faces. I told mother and father and everybody. Mamma was ill all the day after it, and next day father and Alexandra told me that I didn't understand what nonsense I was talking. I informed them that they little knew me-- I was not a small child--I understood every word in the language-- that I had read a couple of Paul de Kok's novels two years since on purpose, so as to know all about everything. No sooner did mamma hear me say this than she nearly fainted!" A strange thought passed through the prince's brain; he gazed intently at Aglaya and smiled. He could not believe that this was the same haughty young girl who had once so proudly shown him Gania's letter. He could not understand how that proud and austere beauty could show herself to be such an utter child--a child who probably did not even now understand some words. "Have you always lived at home, Aglaya Ivanovna?" he asked. "I mean, have you never been to school, or college, or anything?" "No--never--nowhere! I've been at home all my life, corked up in a bottle; and they expect me to be married straight out of it. What are you laughing at again? I observe that you, too, have taken to laughing at me, and range yourself on their side against me," she added, frowning angrily. "Don't irritate me--I'm bad enough without that--I don't know what I am doing sometimes. I am persuaded that you came here today in the full belief that I am in love with you, and that I arranged this meeting because of that," she cried, with annoyance. "I admit I was afraid that that was the case, yesterday," blundered the prince (he was rather confused), "but today I am quite convinced that " "How?" cried Aglaya--and her lower lip trembled violently. "You were AFRAID that I--you dared to think that I--good gracious! you suspected, perhaps, that I sent for you to come here in order to catch you in a trap, so that they should find us here together, and make you marry me--" "Aglaya Ivanovna, aren't you ashamed of saying such a thing? How could such a horrible idea enter your sweet, innocent heart? I am certain you don't believe a word of what you say, and probably you don't even know what you are talking about." Aglaya sat with her eyes on the ground; she seemed to have alarmed even herself by what she had said. "No, I'm not; I'm not a bit ashamed!" she murmured. "And how do you know my heart is innocent? And how dared you send me a love-- letter that time?" "LOVE-LETTER? My letter a love-letter? That letter was the most respectful of letters; it went straight from my heart, at what was perhaps the most painful moment of my life! I thought of you at the time as a kind of light. I--" "Well, very well, very well!" she said, but quite in a different tone. She was remorseful now, and bent forward to touch his shoulder, though still trying not to look him in the face, as if the more persuasively to beg him not to be angry with her. "Very well," she continued, looking thoroughly ashamed of herself, "I feel that I said a very foolish thing. I only did it just to try you. Take it as unsaid, and if I offended you, forgive me. Don't look straight at me like that, please; turn your head away. You called it a 'horrible idea'; I only said it to shock you. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 269 Very often I am myself afraid of saying what I intend to say, and out it comes all the same. You have just told me that you wrote that letter at the most painful moment of your life. I know what moment that was!" she added softly, looking at the ground again. "Oh, if you could know all!" "I DO know all!" she cried, with another burst of indignation. "You were living in the same house as that horrible woman with whom you ran away." She did not blush as she said this; on the contrary, she grew pale, and started from her seat, apparently oblivious of what she did, and immediately sat down again. Her lip continued to tremble for a long time. There was silence for a moment. The prince was taken aback by the suddenness of this last reply, and did not know to what he should attribute it. "I don't love you a bit!" she said suddenly, just as though the words had exploded from her mouth. The prince did not answer, and there was silence again. "I love Gavrila Ardalionovitch," she said, quickly; but hardly audibly, and with her head bent lower than ever. "That is NOT true," said the prince, in an equally low voice. "What! I tell stories, do I? It is true! I gave him my promise a couple of days ago on this very seat." The prince was startled, and reflected for a moment. "It is not true," he repeated, decidedly; "you have just invented it!" "You are wonderfully polite. You know he is greatly improved. He loves me better than his life. He let his hand burn before my very eyes in order to prove to me that he loved me better than his life!" "He burned his hand!" "Yes, believe it or not! It's all the same to me!" The prince sat silent once more. Aglaya did not seem to be joking; she was too angry for that. "What! he brought a candle with him to this place? That is, if the episode happened here; otherwise I can't " "Yes, a candle! What's there improbable about that?" "A whole one, and in a candlestick?" "Yes--no-half a candle--an end, you know--no, it was a whole candle; it's all the same. Be quiet, can't you! He brought a box of matches too, if you like, and then lighted the candle and held his finger in it for half an hour and more!--There! Can't that be?" "I saw him yesterday, and his fingers were all right!" Aglaya suddenly burst out laughing, as simply as a child. "Do you know why I have just told you these lies?" She appealed to the prince, of a sudden, with the most childlike candour, and with the laugh still trembling on her lips. "Because when one tells a lie, if one insists on by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 270 something unusual and eccentric-- something too 'out of the way'' for anything, you know--the more impossible the thing is, the more plausible does the lie sound. I've noticed this. But I managed it badly; I didn't know how to work it." She suddenly frowned again at this point as though at some sudden unpleasant recollection. "If"--she began, looking seriously and even sadly at him-- "if when I read you all that about the 'poor knight,' I wished to-to praise you for one thing--I also wished to show you that I knew all--and did not approve of your conduct." "You are very unfair to me, and to that unfortunate woman of whom you spoke just now in such dreadful terms, Aglaya." "Because I know all, all--and that is why I speak so. I know very well how you--half a year since--offered her your hand before everybody. Don't interrupt me. You see, I am merely stating facts without any comment upon them. After that she ran away with Rogojin. Then you lived with her at some village or town, and she ran away from you." (Aglaya blushed dreadfully.) "Then she returned to Rogojin again, who loves her like a madman. Then you --like a wise man as you are--came back here after her as soon as ever you heard that she had returned to Petersburg. Yesterday evening you sprang forward to protect her, and just now you dreamed about her. You see, I know all. You did come back here for her, for her--now didn't you?" "Yes--for her!" said the prince softly and sadly, and bending his head down, quite unconscious of the fact that Aglaya was gazing at him with eyes which burned like live coals. "I came to find out something--I don't believe in her future happiness as Rogojin's wife, although--in a word, I did not know how to help her or what to do for her--but I came, on the chance." He glanced at Aglaya, who was listening with a look of hatred on her face. "If you came without knowing why, I suppose you love her very much indeed!" she said at last. "No," said the prince, "no, I do not love her. Oh! if you only knew with what horror I recall the time I spent with her!" A shudder seemed to sweep over his whole body at the recollection. "Tell me about it," said Aglaya. "There is nothing which you might not hear. Why I should wish to tell you, and only you, this experience of mine, I really cannot say; perhaps it really is because I love you very much. This unhappy woman is persuaded that she is the most hopeless, fallen creature in the world. Oh, do not condemn her! Do not cast stones at her! She has suffered too much already in the consciousness of her own undeserved shame. "And she is not guilty--oh God!--Every moment she bemoans and bewails herself, and cries out that she does not admit any guilt, that she is the victim of circumstances--the victim of a wicked libertine. "But whatever she may say, remember that she does not believe it herself,--remember that she will believe nothing but that she is a guilty creature. "When I tried to rid her soul of this gloomy fallacy, she suffered so terribly that my heart will never be quite at peace so long as I can remember that dreadful time!--Do you know why she left me? Simply to prove to me what is not true--that she is base. But the worst of it is, she did not realize herself that that was all she wanted to prove by her departure! She went away in response to some inner prompting to do something disgraceful, in order that she might say to herself--'There--you've done a new act of shame--you degraded creature!' by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 271 "Oh, Aglaya--perhaps you cannot understand all this. Try to realize that in the perpetual admission of guilt she probably finds some dreadful unnatural satisfaction--as though she were revenging herself upon someone. "Now and then I was able to persuade her almost to see light around her again; but she would soon fall, once more, into her old tormenting delusions, and would go so far as to reproach me for placing myself on a pedestal above her (I never had an idea of such a thing!), and informed me, in reply to my proposal of marriage, that she 'did not want condescending sympathy or help from anybody.' You saw her last night. You don't suppose she can be happy among such people as those--you cannot suppose that such society is fit for her? You have no idea how well-educated she is, and what an intellect she has! She astonished me sometimes." "And you preached her sermons there, did you?" "Oh no," continued the prince thoughtfully, not noticing Aglaya's mocking tone, "I was almost always silent there. I often wished to speak, but I really did not know what to say. In some cases it is best to say nothing, I think. I loved her, yes, I loved her very much indeed; but afterwards--afterwards she guessed all." "What did she guess?" "That I only PITIED her--and--and loved her no longer!" "How do you know that? How do you know that she is not really in love with that--that rich cad--the man she eloped with?" "Oh no! I know she only laughs at him; she has made a fool of him all along." "Has she never laughed at you?" "No--in anger, perhaps. Oh yes! she reproached me dreadfully in anger; and suffered herself, too! But afterwards--oh! don't remind me--don't remind me of that!" He hid his face in his hands. "Are you aware that she writes to me almost every day?" "So that is true, is it?" cried the prince, greatly agitated. "I had heard a report of it, but would not believe it." "Whom did you hear it from?" asked Aglaya, alarmed. "Rogojin said something about it yesterday, but nothing definite." "Yesterday! Morning or evening? Before the music or after?" "After--it was about twelve o'clock." "Ah! Well, if it was Rogojin--but do you know what she writes to me about?" "I should not be surprised by anything. She is mad!" "There are the letters." (Aglaya took three letters out of her pocket and threw them down before the prince.) "For a whole week she has been entreating and worrying and persuading me to marry you. She--well, she is clever, though she may be mad--much cleverer than I am, as you say. Well, she writes that she is in love with me herself, and tries to see me every day, if only from a distance. She writes that you love me, and that she by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 272 has long known it and seen it, and that you and she talked about me-- there. She wishes to see you happy, and she says that she is certain only I can ensure you the happiness you deserve. She writes such strange, wild letters--I haven't shown them to anyone. Now, do you know what all this means? Can you guess anything?" "It is madness--it is merely another proof of her insanity!" said the prince, and his lips trembled. "You are crying, aren't you?" "No, Aglaya. No, I'm not crying." The prince looked at her. "Well, what am I to do? What do you advise me? I cannot go on receiving these letters, you know." "Oh, let her alone, I entreat you!" cried the prince. What can you do in this dark, gloomy mystery? Let her alone, and I'll use all my power to prevent her writing you any more letters." "If so, you are a heartless man!" cried Aglaya. As if you can't see that it is not myself she loves, but you, you, and only you! Surely you have not remarked everything else in her, and only not THIS? Do you know what these letters mean? They mean jealousy, sir--nothing but pure jealousy! She--do you think she will ever really marry this Rogojin, as she says here she will? She would take her own life the day after you and I were married." The prince shuddered; his heart seemed to freeze within him. He gazed at Aglaya in wonderment; it was difficult for him to realize that this child was also a woman. "God knows, Aglaya, that to restore her peace of mind and make her happy I would willingly give up my life. But I cannot love her, and she knows that." "Oh, make a sacrifice of yourself! That sort of thing becomes you well, you know. Why not do it? And don't call me 'Aglaya'; you have done it several times lately. You are bound, it is your DUTY to 'raise' her; you must go off somewhere again to soothe and pacify her. Why, you love her, you know!" "I cannot sacrifice myself so, though I admit I did wish to do so once. Who knows, perhaps I still wish to! But I know for CERTAIN, that if she married me it would be her ruin; I know this and therefore I leave her alone. I ought to go to see her today; now I shall probably not go. She is proud, she would never forgive me the nature of the love I bear her, and we should both be ruined. This may be unnatural, I don't know; but everything seems unnatural. You say she loves me, as if this were LOVE! As if she could love ME, after what I have been through! No, no, it is not love." "How pale you have grown!" cried Aglaya in alarm. Oh, it's nothing. I haven't slept, that's all, and I'm rather tired. I--we certainly did talk about you, Aglaya." "Oh, indeed, it is true then! YOU COULD ACTUALLY TALK ABOUT ME WITH HER; and--and how could you have been fond of me when you had only seen me once?" "I don't know. Perhaps it was that I seemed to come upon light in the midst of my gloom. I told you the truth when I said I did not know why I thought of you before all others. Of course it was all a sort of dream, a dream amidst the horrors of reality. Afterwards I began to work. I did not intend to come back here for two or three years--" "Then you came for her sake?" Aglaya's voice trembled. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 273 "Yes, I came for her sake." There was a moment or two of gloomy silence. Aglaya rose from her seat. "If you say," she began in shaky tones, "if you say that this woman of yours is mad--at all events I have nothing to do with her insane fancies. Kindly take these three letters, Lef Nicolaievitch, and throw them back to her, from me. And if she dares," cried Aglaya suddenly, much louder than before, "if she dares so much as write me one word again, tell her I shall tell my father, and that she shall be taken to a lunatic asylum." The prince jumped up in alarm at Aglaya's sudden wrath, and a mist seemed to come before his eyes. "You cannot really feel like that! You don't mean what you say. It is not true," he murmured. "It IS true, it IS true," cried Aglaya, almost beside herself with rage. "What's true? What's all this? What's true?" said an alarmed voice just beside them. Before them stood Lizabetha Prokofievna. "Why, it's true that I am going to marry Gavrila Ardalionovitch, that I love him and intend to elope with him tomorrow," cried Aglaya, turning upon her mother. "Do you hear? Is your curiosity satisfied? Are you pleased with what you have heard?" Aglaya rushed away homewards with these words. "H'm! well, YOU are not going away just yet, my friend, at all events," said Lizabetha, stopping the prince. "Kindly step home with me, and let me have a little explanation of the mystery. Nice goings on, these! I haven't slept a wink all night as it is." The prince followed her. IX. ARRIVED at her house, Lizabetha Prokofievna paused in the first room. She could go no farther, and subsided on to a couch quite exhausted; too feeble to remember so much as to ask the prince to take a seat. This was a large reception-room, full of flowers, and with a glass door leading into the garden. Alexandra and Adelaida came in almost immediately, and looked inquiringly at the prince and their mother. The girls generally rose at about nine in the morning in the country; Aglaya, of late, had been in the habit of getting up rather earlier and having a walk in the garden, but not at seven o'clock; about eight or a little later was her usual time. Lizabetha Prokofievna, who really had not slept all night, rose at about eight on purpose to meet Aglaya in the garden and walk with her; but she could not find her either in the garden or in her own room. This agitated the old lady considerably; and she awoke her other daughters. Next, she learned from the maid that Aglaya had gone into the park before seven o'clock. The sisters made a joke of Aglaya's last freak, and told their mother that if she went into the park to look for her, Aglaya would probably be very angry with her, and that she was pretty sure to be sitting reading on the green bench that she had talked of two or three days since, and about which she had nearly quarrelled with Prince S., who did not see anything particularly lovely in it. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 274 Arrived at the rendezvous of the prince and her daughter, and hearing the strange words of the latter, Lizabetha Prokofievna had been dreadfully alarmed, for many reasons. However, now that she had dragged the prince home with her, she began to feel a little frightened at what she had undertaken. Why should not Aglaya meet the prince in the park and have a talk with him, even if such a meeting should be by appointment? "Don't suppose, prince," she began, bracing herself up for the effort, "don't suppose that I have brought you here to ask questions. After last night, I assure you, I am not so exceedingly anxious to see you at all; I could have postponed the pleasure for a long while." She paused. "But at the same time you would be very glad to know how I happened to meet Aglaya Ivanovna this morning?" The prince finished her speech for her with the utmost composure. "Well, what then? Supposing I should like to know?" cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, blushing. "I'm sure I am not afraid of plain speaking. I'm not offending anyone, and I never wish to, and--" "Pardon me, it is no offence to wish to know this; you are her mother. We met at the green bench this morning, punctually at seven o'clock,--according to an agreement made by Aglaya Ivanovna with myself yesterday. She said that she wished to see me and speak to me about something important. We met and conversed for an hour about matters concerning Aglaya Ivanovna herself, and that's all." "Of course it is all, my friend. I don't doubt you for a moment," said Lizabetha Prokofievna with dignity. "Well done, prince, capital!" cried Aglaya, who entered the room at this moment. "Thank you for assuming that I would not demean myself with lies. Come, is that enough, mamma, or do you intend to put any more questions?" "You know I have never needed to blush before you, up to this day, though perhaps you would have been glad enough to make me," said Lizabetha Prokofievna,--with majesty. "Good-bye, prince; forgive me for bothering you. I trust you will rest assured of my unalterable esteem for you." The prince made his bows and retired at once. Alexandra and Adelaida smiled and whispered to each other, while Lizabetha Prokofievna glared severely at them. "We are only laughing at the prince's beautiful bows, mamma," said Adelaida. "Sometimes he bows just like a meal-sack, but to-day he was like--like Evgenie Pavlovitch!" "It is the HEART which is the best teacher of refinement and dignity, not the dancing-master," said her mother, sententiously, and departed upstairs to her own room, not so much as glancing at Aglaya. When the prince reached home, about nine o'clock, he found Vera Lebedeff and the maid on the verandah. They were both busy trying to tidy up the place after last night's disorderly party. "Thank goodness, we've just managed to finish it before you came in!" said Vera, joyfully. "Good-morning! My head whirls so; I didn't sleep all night. I should like to have a nap now." "Here, on the verandah? Very well, I'll tell them all not to come and wake you. Papa has gone out somewhere." The servant left the room. Vera was about to follow her, but returned and approached the prince with a preoccupied air. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 275 "Prince!" she said, "have pity on that poor boy; don't turn him out today." "Not for the world; he shall do just as he likes." "He won't do any harm now; and--and don't be too severe with him," "Oh dear no! Why--" "And--and you won't LAUGH at him? That's the chief thing." "Oh no! Never." "How foolish I am to speak of such things to a man like you," said Vera, blushing. "Though you DO look tired," she added, half turning away," your eyes are so splendid at this moment--so full of happiness." "Really?" asked the prince, gleefully, and he laughed in delight. But Vera, simple-minded little girl that she was (just like a boy, in fact), here became dreadfully confused, of a sudden, and ran hastily out of the room, laughing and blushing. "What a dear little thing she is," thought the prince, and immediately forgot all about her. He walked to the far end of the verandah, where the sofa stood, with a table in front of it. Here he sat down and covered his face with his hands, and so remained for ten minutes. Suddenly he put his hand in his coat-pocket and hurriedly produced three letters. But the door opened again, and out came Colia. The prince actually felt glad that he had been interrupted,--and might return the letters to his pocket. He was glad of the respite. "Well," said Colia, plunging in medias res, as he always did, "here's a go! What do you think of Hippolyte now? Don't respect him any longer, eh?" "Why not? But look here, Colia, I'm tired; besides, the subject is too melancholy to begin upon again. How is he, though?" "Asleep--he'll sleep for a couple of hours yet. I quite understand--you haven't slept--you walked about the park, I know. Agitation--excitement--all that sort of thing--quite natural, too!" "How do you know I walked in the park and didn't sleep at home?" "Vera just told me. She tried to persuade me not to come, but I couldn't help myself, just for one minute. I have been having my turn at the bedside for the last two hours; Kostia Lebedeff is there now. Burdovsky has gone. Now, lie down, prince, make yourself comfortable, and sleep well! I'm awfully impressed, you know." "Naturally, all this--" "No, no, I mean with the 'explanation,' especially that part of it where he talks about Providence and a future life. There is a gigantic thought there." The prince gazed affectionately at Colia, who, of course, had come in solely for the purpose of talking about by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 276 this "gigantic thought." "But it is not any one particular thought, only; it is the general circumstances of the case. If Voltaire had written this now, or Rousseau, I should have just read it and thought it remarkable, but should not have been so IMPRESSED by it. But a man who knows for certain that he has but ten minutes to live and can talk like that--why--it's--it's PRIDE, that is! It is really a most extraordinary, exalted assertion of personal dignity, it's--it's DEFIANT! What a GIGANTIC strength of will, eh? And to accuse a fellow like that of not putting in the cap on purpose; it's base and mean! You know he deceived us last night, the cunning rascal. I never packed his bag for him, and I never saw his pistol. He packed it himself. But he put me off my guard like that, you see. Vera says you are going to let him stay on; I swear there's no danger, especially as we are always with him." "Who was by him at night?" "I, and Burdovsky, and Kostia Lebedeff. Keller stayed a little while, and then went over to Lebedeff's to sleep. Ferdishenko slept at Lebedeff's, too; but he went away at seven o'clock. My father is always at Lebedeff's; but he has gone out just now. I dare say Lebedeff will be coming in here directly; he has been looking for you; I don't know what he wants. Shall we let him in or not, if you are asleep? I'm going to have a nap, too. By-the-by, such a curious thing happened. Burdovsky woke me at seven, and I met my father just outside the room, so drunk, he didn't even know me. He stood before me like a log, and when he recovered himself, asked hurriedly how Hippolyte was. 'Yes,' he said, when I told him, 'that's all very well, but I REALLY came to warn you that you must be very careful what you say before Ferdishenko.' Do you follow me, prince?" "Yes. Is it really so? However, it's all the same to us, of course." "Of course it is; we are not a secret society; and that being the case, it is all the more curious that the general should have been on his way to wake me up in order to tell me this." "Ferdishenko has gone, you say?" "Yes, he went at seven o'clock. He came into the room on his way out; I was watching just then. He said he was going to spend 'the rest of the night' at Wilkin's; there's a tipsy fellow, a friend of his, of that name. Well, I'm off. Oh, here's Lebedeff himself! The prince wants to go to sleep, Lukian Timofeyovitch, so you may just go away again." "One moment, my dear prince, just one. I must absolutely speak to you about something which is most grave," said Lebedeff, mysteriously and solemnly, entering the room with a bow and looking extremely important. He had but just returned, and carried his hat in his hand. He looked preoccupied and most unusually dignified. The prince begged him to take a chair. "I hear you have called twice; I suppose you are still worried about yesterday's affair." "What, about that boy, you mean? Oh dear no, yesterday my ideas were a little--well--mixed. Today, I assure you, I shall not oppose in the slightest degree any suggestions it may please you to make." "What's up with you this morning, Lebedeff? You look so important and dignified, and you choose your words so carefully," said the prince, smiling. "Nicolai Ardalionovitch!" said Lebedeff, in a most amiable tone of voice, addressing the boy. "As I have a communication to make to the prince which concerns only myself--" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 277 "Of course, of course, not my affair. All right," said Colia, and away he went. "I love that boy for his perception," said Lebedeff, looking after him. "My dear prince," he continued, "I have had a terrible misfortune, either last night or early this morning. I cannot tell the exact time." "What is it?" "I have lost four hundred roubles out of my side pocket! They're gone!" said Lebedeff, with a sour smile. "You've lost four hundred roubles? Oh! I'm sorry for that." "Yes, it is serious for a poor man who lives by his toil." "Of course, of course! How was it?" "Oh, the wine is to blame, of course. I confess to you, prince, as I would to Providence itself. Yesterday I received four hundred roubles from a debtor at about five in the afternoon, and came down here by train. I had my purse in my pocket. When I changed, I put the money into the pocket of my plain clothes, intending to keep it by me, as I expected to have an applicant for it in the evening." "It's true then, Lebedeff, that you advertise to lend money on gold or silver articles?" "Yes, through an agent. My own name doesn't appear. I have a large family, you see, and at a small percentage--" "Quite so, quite so. I only asked for information--excuse the question. Go on." "Well, meanwhile that sick boy was brought here, and those guests came in, and we had tea, and--well, we made merry--to my ruin! Hearing of your birthday afterwards, and excited with the circumstances of the evening, I ran upstairs and changed my plain clothes once more for my uniform [Civil Service clerks in Russia wear uniform.]--you must have noticed I had my uniform on all the evening? Well, I forgot the money in the pocket of my old coat-- you know when God will ruin a man he first of all bereaves him of his senses--and it was only this morning at half-past seven that I woke up and grabbed at my coat pocket, first thing. The pocket was empty--the purse gone, and not a trace to be found!" "Dear me! This is very unpleasant!" "Unpleasant! Indeed it is. You have found a very appropriate expression," said Lebedeff, politely, but with sarcasm. "But what's to be done? It's a serious matter," said the prince, thoughtfully. "Don't you think you may have dropped it out of your pocket whilst intoxicated?" "Certainly. Anything is possible when one is intoxicated, as you neatly express it, prince. But consider--if I, intoxicated or not, dropped an object out of my pocket on to the ground, that object ought to remain on the ground. Where is the object, then?" "Didn't you put it away in some drawer, perhaps?" "I've looked everywhere, and turned out everything." "I confess this disturbs me a good deal. Someone must have picked it up, then." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 278 "Or taken it out of my pocket--two alternatives." "It is very distressing, because WHO--? That's the question!" "Most undoubtedly, excellent prince, you have hit it--that is the very question. How wonderfully you express the exact situation in a few words!" "Come, come, Lebedeff, no sarcasm! It's a serious--" "Sarcasm!" cried Lebedeff, wringing his hands. "All right, all right, I'm not angry. I'm only put out about this. Whom do you suspect?" "That is a very difficult and complicated question. I cannot suspect the servant, for she was in the kitchen the whole evening, nor do I suspect any of my children." "I should think not. Go on." "Then it must be one of the guests." "Is such a thing possible?" "Absolutely and utterly impossible--and yet, so it must be. But one thing I am sure of, if it be a theft, it was committed, not in the evening when we were all together, but either at night or early in the morning; therefore, by one of those who slept here. Burdovsky and Colia I except, of course. They did not even come into my room." "Yes, or even if they had! But who did sleep with you?" "Four of us, including myself, in two rooms. The general, myself, Keller, and Ferdishenko. One of us four it must have been. I don't suspect myself, though such cases have been known." "Oh! DO go on, Lebedeff! Don't drag it out so." "Well, there are three left, then--Keller firstly. He is a drunkard to begin with, and a liberal (in the sense of other people's pockets), otherwise with more of the ancient knight about him than of the modern liberal. He was with the sick man at first, but came over afterwards because there was no place to lie down in the room and the floor was so hard." "You suspect him?" "I DID suspect him. When I woke up at half-past seven and tore my hair in despair for my loss and carelessness, I awoke the general, who was sleeping the sleep of innocence near me. Taking into consideration the sudden disappearance of Ferdishenko, which was suspicious in itself, we decided to search Keller, who was lying there sleeping like a top. Well, we searched his clothes thoroughly, and not a farthing did we find; in fact, his pockets all had holes in them. We found a dirty handkerchief, and a love- letter from some scullery-maid. The general decided that he was innocent. We awoke him for further inquiries, and had the greatest difficulty in making him understand what was up. He opened his mouth and stared--he looked so stupid and so absurdly innocent. It wasn't Keller." "Oh, I'm so glad!" said the prince, joyfully. "I was so afraid." "Afraid! Then you had some grounds for supposing he might be the culprit?" said Lebedeff, frowning. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 279 "Oh no--not a bit! It was foolish of me to say I was afraid! Don't repeat it please, Lebedeff, don't tell anyone I said that!" "My dear prince! your words lie in the lowest depth of my heart-- it is their tomb!" said Lebedeff, solemnly, pressing his hat to the region of his heart. "Thanks; very well. Then I suppose it's Ferdishenko; that is, I mean, you suspect Ferdishenko?" "Whom else?" said Lebedeff, softly, gazing intently into the prince s face. "Of course--quite so, whom else? But what are the proofs?" "We have evidence. In the first place, his mysterious disappearance at seven o'clock, or even earlier." "I know, Colia told me that he had said he was off to--I forget the name, some friend of his, to finish the night." "H'm! then Colia has spoken to you already?" "Not about the theft." "He does not know of it; I have kept it a secret. Very well, Ferdishenko went off to Wilkin's. That is not so curious in itself, but here the evidence opens out further. He left his address, you see, when he went. Now prince, consider, why did he leave his address? Why do you suppose he went out of his way to tell Colia that he had gone to Wilkin's? Who cared to know that he was going to Wilkin's? No, no! prince, this is finesse, thieves' finesse! This is as good as saying, 'There, how can I be a thief when I leave my address? I'm not concealing my movements as a thief would.' Do you understand, prince?" "Oh yes, but that is not enough." "Second proof. The scent turns out to be false, and the address given is a sham. An hour after--that is at about eight, I went to Wilkin's myself, and there was no trace of Ferdishenko. The maid did tell me, certainly, that an hour or so since someone had been hammering at the door, and had smashed the bell; she said she would not open the door because she didn't want to wake her master; probably she was too lazy to get up herself. Such phenomena are met with occasionally!" "But is that all your evidence? It is not enough!" "Well, prince, whom are we to suspect, then? Consider!" said Lebedeff with almost servile amiability, smiling at the prince. There was a look of cunning in his eyes, however. "You should search your room and all the cupboards again," said the prince, after a moment or two of silent reflection. "But I have done so, my dear prince!" said Lebedeff, more sweetly than ever. "H'm! why must you needs go up and change your coat like that?" asked the prince, banging the table with his fist, in annoyance. "Oh, don't be so worried on my account, prince! I assure you I am not worth it! At least, not I alone. But I see you are suffering on behalf of the criminal too, for wretched Ferdishenko, in fact!" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 280 "Of course you have given me a disagreeable enough thing to think about," said the prince, irritably, "but what are you going to do, since you are so sure it was Ferdishenko?" "But who else COULD it be, my very dear prince?" repeated Lebedeff, as sweet as sugar again. "If you don't wish me to suspect Mr. Burdovsky?" "Of course not." "Nor the general? Ha, ha, ha!" "Nonsense!" said the prince, angrily, turning round upon him. "Quite so, nonsense! Ha, ha, ha! dear me! He did amuse me, did the general! We went off on the hot scent to Wilkin's together, you know; but I must first observe that the general was even more thunderstruck than I myself this morning, when I awoke him after discovering the theft; so much so that his very face changed--he grew red and then pale, and at length flew into a paroxysm of such noble wrath that I assure you I was quite surprised! He is a most generous-hearted man! He tells lies by the thousands, I know, but it is merely a weakness; he is a man of the highest feelings; a simple-minded man too, and a man who carries the conviction of innocence in his very appearance. I love that man, sir; I may have told you so before; it is a weakness of mine. Well--he suddenly stopped in the middle of the road, opened out his coat and bared his breast. "Search me," he says, "you searched Keller; why don't you search me too? It is only fair!" says he. And all the while his legs and hands were trembling with anger, and he as white as a sheet all over! So I said to him, "Nonsense, general; if anybody but yourself had said that to me, I'd have taken my head, my own head, and put it on a large dish and carried it round to anyone who suspected you; and I should have said: 'There, you see that head? It's my head, and I'll go bail with that head for him! Yes, and walk through the fire for him, too. There,' says I, 'that's how I'd answer for you, general!' Then he embraced me, in the middle of the street, and hugged me so tight (crying over me all the while) that I coughed fit to choke! 'You are the one friend left to me amid all my misfortunes,' says he. Oh, he's a man of sentiment, that! He went on to tell me a story of how he had been accused, or suspected, of stealing five hundred thousand roubles once, as a young man; and how, the very next day, he had rushed into a burning, blazing house and saved the very count who suspected him, and Nina Alexandrovna (who was then a young girl), from a fiery death. The count embraced him, and that was how he came to marry Nina Alexandrovna, he said. As for the money, it was found among the ruins next day in an English iron box with a secret lock; it had got under the floor somehow, and if it had not been for the fire it would never have been found! The whole thing is, of course, an absolute fabrication, though when he spoke of Nina Alexandrovna he wept! She's a grand woman, is Nina Alexandrovna, though she is very angry with me!" "Are you acquainted with her?" "Well, hardly at all. I wish I were, if only for the sake of justifying myself in her eyes. Nina Alexandrovna has a grudge against me for, as she thinks, encouraging her husband in drinking; whereas in reality I not only do not encourage him, but I actually keep him out of harm's way, and out of bad company. Besides, he's my friend, prince, so that I shall not lose sight of him, again. Where he goes, I go. He's quite given up visiting the captain's widow, though sometimes he thinks sadly of her, especially in the morning, when he's putting on his boots. I don't know why it's at that time. But he has no money, and it's no use his going to see her without. Has he borrowed any money from you, prince?" "No, he has not." "Ah, he's ashamed to! He MEANT to ask you, I know, for he said so. I suppose he thinks that as you gave him some once (you remember), you would probably refuse if he asked you again." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 281 "Do you ever give him money?" "Prince! Money! Why I would give that man not only my money, but my very life, if he wanted it. Well, perhaps that's exaggeration; not life, we'll say, but some illness, a boil or a bad cough, or anything of that sort, I would stand with pleasure, for his sake; for I consider him a great man fallen--money, indeed!" "H'm, then you DO give him money?" "N-no, I have never given him money, and he knows well that I will never give him any; because I am anxious to keep him out of intemperate ways. He is going to town with me now; for you must know I am off to Petersburg after Ferdishenko, while the scent is hot; I'm certain he is there. I shall let the general go one way, while I go the other; we have so arranged matters in order to pop out upon Ferdishenko, you see, from different sides. But I am going to follow that naughty old general and catch him, I know where, at a certain widow's house; for I think it will be a good lesson, to put him to shame by catching him with the widow." "Oh, Lebedeff, don't, don't make any scandal about it!" said the prince, much agitated, and speaking in a low voice. "Not for the world, not for the world! I merely wish to make him ashamed of himself. Oh, prince, great though this misfortune be to myself, I cannot help thinking of his morals! I have a great favour to ask of you, esteemed prince; I confess that it is the chief object of my visit. You know the Ivolgins, you have even lived in their house; so if you would lend me your help, honoured prince, in the general's own interest and for his good." Lebedeff clasped his hands in supplication. "What help do you want from me? You may be certain that I am most anxious to understand you, Lebedeff." "I felt sure of that, or I should not have come to you. We might manage it with the help of Nina Alexandrovna, so that he might be closely watched in his own house. Unfortunately I am not on terms ... otherwise ... but Nicolai Ardalionovitch, who adores you with all his youthful soul, might help, too." "No, no! Heaven forbid that we should bring Nina Alexandrovna into this business! Or Colia, either. But perhaps I have not yet quite understood you, Lebedeff?" Lebedeff made an impatient movement. "But there is nothing to understand! Sympathy and tenderness, that is all--that is all our poor invalid requires! You will permit me to consider him an invalid?" "Yes, it shows delicacy and intelligence on your part." "I will explain my idea by a practical example, to make it clearer. You know the sort of man he is. At present his only failing is that he is crazy about that captain's widow, and he cannot go to her without money, and I mean to catch him at her house today--for his own good; but supposing it was not only the widow, but that he had committed a real crime, or at least some very dishonourable action (of which he is, of course, incapable), I repeat that even in that case, if he were treated with what I may call generous tenderness, one could get at the whole truth, for he is very soft-hearted! Believe me, he would betray himself before five days were out; he would burst into tears, and make a clean breast of the matter; especially if managed with tact, and if you and his family watched his every step, so to speak. Oh, my dear prince," Lebedeff added most emphatically, "I do not positively assert that he has ... I am ready, as the saying is, to shed my last drop of blood for him this instant; but you will admit that debauchery, drunkenness, and the captain's widow, all these together may lead by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 282 him very far." "I am, of course, quite ready to add my efforts to yours in such a case," said the prince, rising; "but I confess, Lebedeff, that I am terribly perplexed. Tell me, do you still think ... plainly, you say yourself that you suspect Mr. Ferdishenko?" Lebedeff clasped his hands once more. "Why, who else could I possibly suspect? Who else, most outspoken prince?" he replied, with an unctuous smile. Muishkin frowned, and rose from his seat. "You see, Lebedeff, a mistake here would be a dreadful thing. This Ferdishenko, I would not say a word against him, of course; but, who knows? Perhaps it really was he? I mean he really does seem to be a more likely man than... than any other." Lebedeff strained his eyes and ears to take in what the prince was saying. The latter was frowning more and more, and walking excitedly up and down, trying not to look at Lebedeff. "You see," he said, "I was given to understand that Ferdishenko was that sort of man,--that one can't say everything before him. One has to take care not to say too much, you understand? I say this to prove that he really is, so to speak, more likely to have done this than anyone else, eh? You understand? The important thing is, not to make a mistake." "And who told you this about Ferdishenko?" "Oh, I was told. Of course I don't altogether believe it. I am very sorry that I should have had to say this, because I assure you I don't believe it myself; it is all nonsense, of course. It was stupid of me to say anything about it." "You see, it is very important, it is most important to know where you got this report from," said Lebedeff, excitedly. He had risen from his seat, and was trying to keep step with the prince, running after him, up and down. "Because look here, prince, I don't mind telling you now that as we were going along to Wilkin's this morning, after telling me what you know about the fire, and saving the count and all that, the general was pleased to drop certain hints to the same effect about Ferdishenko, but so vaguely and clumsily that I thought better to put a few questions to him on the matter, with the result that I found the whole thing was an invention of his excellency's own mind. Of course, he only lies with the best intentions; still, he lies. But, such being the case, where could you have heard the same report? It was the inspiration of the moment with him, you understand, so who could have told YOU? It is an important question, you see!" "It was Colia told me, and his father told HIM at about six this morning. They met at the threshold, when Colia was leaving the room for something or other." The prince told Lebedeff all that Colia had made known to himself, in detail. "There now, that's what we may call SCENT!" said Lebedeff, rubbing his hands and laughing silently. "I thought it must be so, you see. The general interrupted his innocent slumbers, at six o'clock, in order to go and wake his beloved son, and warn him of the dreadful danger of companionship with Ferdishenko. Dear me! what a dreadfully dangerous man Ferdishenko must be, and what touching paternal solicitude, on the part of his excellency, ha! ha! ha!" "Listen, Lebedeff," began the prince, quite overwhelmed; "DO act quietly--don't make a scandal, Lebedeff, I by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 283 ask you--I entreat you! No one must know--NO ONE, mind! In that case only, I will help you." "Be assured, most honourable, most worthy of princes--be assured that the whole matter shall be buried within my heart!" cried Lebedeff, in a paroxysm of exaltation. "I'd give every drop of my blood... Illustrious prince, I am a poor wretch in soul and spirit, but ask the veriest scoundrel whether he would prefer to deal with one like himself, or with a noble-hearted man like you, and there is no doubt as to his choice! He'll answer that he prefers the noble-hearted man--and there you have the triumph of virtue! Au revoir, honoured prince! You and I together--softly! softly!" X. THE prince understood at last why he shivered with dread every time he thought of the three letters in his pocket, and why he had put off reading them until the evening. When he fell into a heavy sleep on the sofa on the verandah, without having had the courage to open a single one of the three envelopes, he again dreamed a painful dream, and once more that poor, "sinful" woman appeared to him. Again she gazed at him with tears sparkling on her long lashes, and beckoned him after her; and again he awoke, as before, with the picture of her face haunting him. He longed to get up and go to her at once--but he COULD NOT. At length, almost in despair, he unfolded the letters, and began to read them. These letters, too, were like a dream. We sometimes have strange, impossible dreams, contrary to all the laws of nature. When we awake we remember them and wonder at their strangeness. You remember, perhaps, that you were in full possession of your reason during this succession of fantastic images; even that you acted with extraordinary logic and cunning while surrounded by murderers who hid their intentions and made great demonstrations of friendship, while waiting for an opportunity to cut your throat. You remember how you escaped them by some ingenious stratagem; then you doubted if they were really deceived, or whether they were only pretending not to know your hiding-place; then you thought of another plan and hoodwinked them once again. You remember all this quite clearly, but how is it that your reason calmly accepted all the manifest absurdities and impossibilities that crowded into your dream? One of the murderers suddenly changed into a woman before your very eyes; then the woman was transformed into a hideous, cunning little dwarf; and you believed it, and accepted it all almost as a matter of course--while at the same time your intelligence seemed unusually keen, and accomplished miracles of cunning, sagacity, and logic! Why is it that when you awake to the world of realities you nearly always feel, sometimes very vividly, that the vanished dream has carried with it some enigma which you have failed to solve? You smile at the extravagance of your dream, and yet you feel that this tissue of absurdity contained some real idea, something that belongs to your true life,--something that exists, and has always existed, in your heart. You search your dream for some prophecy that you were expecting. It has left a deep impression upon you, joyful or cruel, but what it means, or what has been predicted to you in it, you can neither understand nor remember. The reading of these letters produced some such effect upon the prince. He felt, before he even opened the envelopes, that the very fact of their existence was like a nightmare. How could she ever have made up her mind to write to her? he asked himself. How could she write about that at all? And how could such a wild idea have entered her head? And yet, the strangest part of the matter was, that while he read the letters, he himself almost believed in the possibility, and even in the justification, of the idea he had thought so wild. Of course it was a mad dream, a nightmare, and yet there was something cruelly real about it. For hours he was haunted by what he had read. Several passages returned again and again to his mind, and as he brooded over them, he felt inclined to say to himself that he had foreseen and known all that was written here; it even seemed to him that he had read the whole of this some time or other, long, long ago; and all that had tormented and grieved him up to now was to be found in these old, long since read, letters. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 284 "When you open this letter" (so the first began), "look first at the signature. The signature will tell you all, so that I need explain nothing, nor attempt to justify myself. Were I in any way on a footing with you, you might be offended at my audacity; but who am I, and who are you? We are at such extremes, and I am so far removed from you, that I could not offend you if I wished to do so." Farther on, in another place, she wrote: "Do not consider my words as the sickly ecstasies of a diseased mind, but you are, in my opinion--perfection! I have seen you--I see you every day. I do not judge you; I have not weighed you in the scales of Reason and found you Perfection--it is simply an article of faith. But I must confess one sin against you--I love you. One should not love perfection. One should only look on it as perfection--yet I am in love with you. Though love equalizes, do not fear. I have not lowered you to my level, even in my most secret thoughts. I have written 'Do not fear,' as if you could fear. I would kiss your footprints if I could; but, oh! I am not putting myself on a level with you!--Look at the signature--quick, look at the signature!" "However, observe" (she wrote in another of the letters), "that although I couple you with him, yet I have not once asked you whether you love him. He fell in love with you, though he saw you but once. He spoke of you as of 'the light.' These are his own words--I heard him use them. But I understood without his saying it that you were all that light is to him. I lived near him for a whole month, and I understood then that you, too, must love him. I think of you and him as one." "What was the matter yesterday?" (she wrote on another sheet). "I passed by you, and you seemed to me to BLUSH. Perhaps it was only my fancy. If I were to bring you to the most loathsome den, and show you the revelation of undisguised vice--you should not blush. You can never feel the sense of personal affront. You may hate all who are mean, or base, or unworthy--but not for yourself--only for those whom they wrong. No one can wrong YOU. Do you know, I think you ought to love me--for you are the same in my eyes as in his-you are as light. An angel cannot hate, perhaps cannot love, either. I often ask myself--is it possible to love everybody? Indeed it is not; it is not in nature. Abstract love of humanity is nearly always love of self. But you are different. You cannot help loving all, since you can compare with none, and are above all personal offence or anger. Oh! how bitter it would be to me to know that you felt anger or shame on my account, for that would be your fall--you would become comparable at once with such as me. "Yesterday, after seeing you, I went home and thought out a picture. "Artists always draw the Saviour as an actor in one of the Gospel stories. I should do differently. I should represent Christ alone--the disciples did leave Him alone occasionally. I should paint one little child left with Him. This child has been playing about near Him, and had probably just been telling the Saviour something in its pretty baby prattle. Christ had listened to it, but was now musing--one hand reposing on the child's bright head. His eyes have a far-away expression. Thought, great as the Universe, is in them--His face is sad. The little one leans its elbow upon Christ's knee, and with its cheek resting on its hand, gazes up at Him, pondering as children sometimes do ponder. The sun is setting. There you have my picture. "You are innocent--and in your innocence lies all your perfection--oh, remember that! What is my passion to you?--you are mine now; I shall be near you all my life--I shall not live long!" At length, in the last letter of all, he found: "For Heaven's sake, don't misunderstand me! Do not think that I humiliate myself by writing thus to you, or that I belong to that class of people who take a satisfaction in humiliating themselves--from pride. I have my consolation, though it would be difficult to explain it--but I do not humiliate myself. "Why do I wish to unite you two? For your sakes or my own? For my own sake, naturally. All the problems of my life would thus be solved; I have thought so for a long time. I know that once when your sister Adelaida by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 285 saw my portrait she said that such beauty could overthrow the world. But I have renounced the world. You think it strange that I should say so, for you saw me decked with lace and diamonds, in the company of drunkards and wastrels. Take no notice of that; I know that I have almost ceased to exist. God knows what it is dwelling within me now--it is not myself. I can see it every day in two dreadful eyes which are always looking at me, even when not present. These eyes are silent now, they say nothing; but I know their secret. His house is gloomy, and there is a secret in it. I am convinced that in some box he has a razor hidden, tied round with silk, just like the one that Moscow murderer had. This man also lived with his mother, and had a razor hidden away, tied round with white silk, and with this razor he intended to cut a throat. "All the while I was in their house I felt sure that somewhere beneath the floor there was hidden away some dreadful corpse, wrapped in oil-cloth, perhaps buried there by his father, who knows? Just as in the Moscow case. I could have shown you the very spot! "He is always silent, but I know well that he loves me so much that he must hate me. My wedding and yours are to be on the same day; so I have arranged with him. I have no secrets from him. I would kill him from very fright, but he will kill me first. He has just burst out laughing, and says that I am raving. He knows I am writing to you." There was much more of this delirious wandering in the letters-- one of them was very long. At last the prince came out of the dark, gloomy park, in which he had wandered about for hours just as yesterday. The bright night seemed to him to be lighter than ever. "It must be quite early," he thought. (He had forgotten his watch.) There was a sound of distant music somewhere. "Ah," he thought, "the Vauxhall! They won't be there today, of course!" At this moment he noticed that he was close to their house; he had felt that he must gravitate to this spot eventually, and, with a beating heart, he mounted the verandah steps. No one met him; the verandah was empty, and nearly pitch dark. He opened the door into the room, but it, too, was dark and empty. He stood in the middle of the room in perplexity. Suddenly the door opened, and in came Alexandra, candle in hand. Seeing the prince she stopped before him in surprise, looking at him questioningly. It was clear that she had been merely passing through the room from door to door, and had not had the remotest notion that she would meet anyone. "How did you come here?" she asked, at last. "I-I--came in--" "Mamma is not very well, nor is Aglaya. Adelaida has gone to bed, and I am just going. We were alone the whole evening. Father and Prince S. have gone to town." "I have come to you--now--to--" "Do you know what time it is?" "N--no!" "Half-past twelve. We are always in bed by one." "I-I thought it was half-past nine!" "Never mind!" she laughed, "but why didn't you come earlier? Perhaps you were expected!" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 286 "I thought" he stammered, making for the door. "Au revoir! I shall amuse them all with this story tomorrow!" He walked along the road towards his own house. His heart was beating, his thoughts were confused, everything around seemed to be part of a dream. And suddenly, just as twice already he had awaked from sleep with the same vision, that very apparition now seemed to rise up before him. The woman appeared to step out from the park, and stand in the path in front of him, as though she had been waiting for him there. He shuddered and stopped; she seized his hand and pressed it frenziedly. No, this was no apparition! There she stood at last, face to face with him, for the first time since their parting. She said something, but he looked silently back at her. His heart ached with anguish. Oh! never would he banish the recollection of this meeting with her, and he never remembered it but with the same pain and agony of mind. She went on her knees before him--there in the open road--like a madwoman. He retreated a step, but she caught his hand and kissed it, and, just as in his dream, the tears were sparkling on her long, beautiful lashes. "Get up!" he said, in a frightened whisper, raising her. "Get up at once!" "Are you happy--are you happy?" she asked. "Say this one word. Are you happy now? Today, this moment? Have you just been with her? What did she say?" She did not rise from her knees; she would not listen to him; she put her questions hurriedly, as though she were pursued. "I am going away tomorrow, as you bade me--I won't write--so that this is the last time I shall see you, the last time! This is really the LAST TIME!" "Oh, be calm--be calm! Get up!" he entreated, in despair. She gazed thirstily at him and clutched his hands. "Good-bye!" she said at last, and rose and left him, very quickly. The prince noticed that Rogojin had suddenly appeared at her side, and had taken her arm and was leading her away. "Wait a minute, prince," shouted the latter, as he went. "I shall be back in five minutes." He reappeared in five minutes as he had said. The prince was waiting for him. "I've put her in the carriage," he said; "it has been waiting round the corner there since ten o'clock. She expected that you would be with THEM all the evening. I told her exactly what you wrote me. She won't write to the girl any more, she promises; and tomorrow she will be off, as you wish. She desired to see you for the last time, although you refused, so we've been sitting and waiting on that bench till you should pass on your by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 287 way home." "Did she bring you with her of her own accord?" "Of course she did!" said Rogojin, showing his teeth; "and I saw for myself what I knew before. You've read her letters, I suppose?" "Did you read them?" asked the prince, struck by the thought. "Of course--she showed them to me herself. You are thinking of the razor, eh? Ha, ha, ha!" "Oh, she is mad!" cried the prince, wringing his hands. "Who knows? Perhaps she is not so mad after all," said Rogojin, softly, as though thinking aloud. The prince made no reply. "Well, good-bye," said Rogojin. "I'm off tomorrow too, you know. Remember me kindly! By-the-by," he added, turning round sharply again, "did you answer her question just now? Are you happy, or not?" "No, no, no!" cried the prince, with unspeakable sadness. "Ha, ha! I never supposed you would say 'yes,'" cried Rogojin, laughing sardonically. And he disappeared, without looking round again. PART IV I. A WEEK had elapsed since the rendezvous of our two friends on the green bench in the park, when, one fine morning at about half- past ten o'clock, Varvara Ardalionovna, otherwise Mrs. Ptitsin, who had been out to visit a friend, returned home in a state of considerable mental depression. There are certain people of whom it is difficult to say anything which will at once throw them into relief--in other words, describe them graphically in their typical characteristics. These are they who are generally known as "commonplace people," and this class comprises, of course, the immense majority of mankind. Authors, as a rule, attempt to select and portray types rarely met with in their entirety, but these types are nevertheless more real than real life itself. "Podkoleosin" [A character in Gogol's comedy, The Wedding.] was perhaps an exaggeration, but he was by no means a non-existent character; on the contrary, how many intelligent people, after hearing of this Podkoleosin from Gogol, immediately began to find that scores of their friends were exactly like him! They knew, perhaps, before Gogol told them, that their friends were like Podkoleosin, but they did not know what name to give them. In real life, young fellows seldom jump out of the window just before their weddings, because such a feat, not to speak of its other aspects, must be a decidedly unpleasant mode of escape; and yet there are plenty of bridegrooms, intelligent fellows too, who would be ready to confess themselves Podkoleosins in the depths of their consciousness, just before marriage. Nor does every husband feel bound to repeat at every step, "Tu l'as voulu, Georges Dandin!" like another typical personage; and yet how many millions and billions of Georges Dandins there are in real life who feel inclined to utter this soul-drawn cry after their honeymoon, if not the day after the wedding! Therefore, without entering into any more serious examination of the question, I will content myself with remarking that in real life typical characters are "watered down," so to speak; and all these Dandins and Podkoleosins actually exist among us every day, but by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 288 in a diluted form. I will just add, however, that Georges Dandin might have existed exactly as Moliere presented him, and probably does exist now and then, though rarely; and so I will end this scientific examination, which is beginning to look like a newspaper criticism. But for all this, the question remains,-- what are the novelists to do with commonplace people, and how are they to be presented to the reader in such a form as to be in the least degree interesting? They cannot be left out altogether, for commonplace people meet one at every turn of life, and to leave them out would be to destroy the whole reality and probability of the story. To fill a novel with typical characters only, or with merely strange and uncommon people, would render the book unreal and improbable, and would very likely destroy the interest. In my opinion, the duty of the novelist is to seek out points of interest and instruction even in the characters of commonplace people. For instance, when the whole essence of an ordinary person's nature lies in his perpetual and unchangeable commonplaceness; and when in spite of all his endeavours to do something out of the common, this person ends, eventually, by remaining in his unbroken line of routine--. I think such an individual really does become a type of his own--a type of commonplaceness which will not for the world, if it can help it, be contented, but strains and yearns to be something original and independent, without the slightest possibility of being so. To this class of commonplace people belong several characters in this novel;-- characters which--I admit--I have not drawn very vividly up to now for my reader's benefit. Such were, for instance, Varvara Ardalionovna Ptitsin, her husband, and her brother, Gania. There is nothing so annoying as to be fairly rich, of a fairly good family, pleasing presence, average education, to be "not stupid," kind-hearted, and yet to have no talent at all, no originality, not a single idea of one's own--to be, in fact, "just like everyone else." Of such people there are countless numbers in this world--far more even than appear. They can be divided into two classes as all men can--that is, those of limited intellect, and those who are much cleverer. The former of these classes is the happier. To a commonplace man of limited intellect, for instance, nothing is simpler than to imagine himself an original character, and to revel in that belief without the slightest misgiving. Many of our young women have thought fit to cut their hair short, put on blue spectacles, and call themselves Nihilists. By doing this they have been able to persuade themselves, without further trouble, that they have acquired new convictions of their own. Some men have but felt some little qualm of kindness towards their fellow-men, and the fact has been quite enough to persuade them that they stand alone in the van of enlightenment and that no one has such humanitarian feelings as they. Others have but to read an idea of somebody else's, and they can immediately assimilate it and believe that it was a child of their own brain. The "impudence of ignorance," if I may use the expression, is developed to a wonderful extent in such cases;--unlikely as it appears, it is met with at every turn. This confidence of a stupid man in his own talents has been wonderfully depicted by Gogol in the amazing character of Pirogoff. Pirogoff has not the slightest doubt of his own genius,--nay, of his SUPERIORITY of genius,--so certain is he of it that he never questions it. How many Pirogoffs have there not been among our writers--scholars--propagandists? I say "have been," but indeed there are plenty of them at this very day. Our friend, Gania, belonged to the other class--to the "much cleverer" persons, though he was from head to foot permeated and saturated with the longing to be original. This class, as I have said above, is far less happy. For the "clever commonplace" person, though he may possibly imagine himself a man of genius and originality, none the less has within his heart the deathless worm of suspicion and doubt; and this doubt sometimes brings a clever man to despair. (As a rule, however, nothing tragic happens;--his liver becomes a little damaged in the course of time, nothing more serious. Such men do not give up their aspirations after originality without a severe struggle,--and there have been men who, though good fellows in themselves, and by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 289 even benefactors to humanity, have sunk to the level of base criminals for the sake of originality. Gania was a beginner, as it were, upon this road. A deep and unchangeable consciousness of his own lack of talent, combined with a vast longing to be able to persuade himself that he was original, had rankled in his heart, even from childhood. He seemed to have been born with overwrought nerves, and in his passionate desire to excel, he was often led to the brink of some rash step; and yet, having resolved upon such a step, when the moment arrived, he invariably proved too sensible to take it. He was ready, in the same way, to do a base action in order to obtain his wished-for object; and yet, when the moment came to do it, he found that he was too honest for any great baseness. (Not that he objected to acts of petty meanness--he was always ready for THEM.) He looked with hate and loathing on the poverty and downfall of his family, and treated his mother with haughty contempt, although he knew that his whole future depended on her character and reputation. Aglaya had simply frightened him; yet he did not give up all thoughts of her--though he never seriously hoped that she would condescend to him. At the time of his "adventure" with Nastasia Philipovna he had come to the conclusion that money was his only hope--money should do all for him. At the moment when he lost Aglaya, and after the scene with Nastasia, he had felt so low in his own eyes that he actually brought the money back to the prince. Of this returning of the money given to him by a madwoman who had received it from a madman, he had often repented since--though he never ceased to be proud of his action. During the short time that Muishkin remained in Petersburg Gania had had time to come to hate him for his sympathy, though the prince told him that it was "not everyone who would have acted so nobly" as to return the money. He had long pondered, too, over his relations with Aglaya, and had persuaded himself that with such a strange, childish, innocent character as hers, things might have ended very differently. Remorse then seized him; he threw up his post, and buried himself in self-torment and reproach. He lived at Ptitsin's, and openly showed contempt for the latter, though he always listened to his advice, and was sensible enough to ask for it when he wanted it. Gavrila Ardalionovitch was angry with Ptitsin because the latter did not care to become a Rothschild. "If you are to be a Jew," he said, "do it properly-- squeeze people right and left, show some character; be the King of the Jews while you are about it." Ptitsin was quiet and not easily offended--he only laughed. But on one occasion he explained seriously to Gania that he was no Jew, that he did nothing dishonest, that he could not help the market price of money, that, thanks to his accurate habits, he had already a good footing and was respected, and that his business was flourishing. "I shan't ever be a Rothschild, and there is no reason why I should," he added, smiling; "but I shall have a house in the Liteynaya, perhaps two, and that will be enough for me." "Who knows but what I may have three!" he concluded to himself; but this dream, cherished inwardly, he never confided to a soul. Nature loves and favours such people. Ptitsin will certainly have his reward, not three houses, but four, precisely because from childhood up he had realized that he would never be a Rothschild. That will be the limit of Ptitsin's fortune, and, come what may, he will never have more than four houses. Varvara Ardalionovna was not like her brother. She too, had passionate desires, but they were persistent rather than impetuous. Her plans were as wise as her methods of carrying them out. No doubt she also belonged to the category of ordinary people who dream of being original, but she soon discovered that she had not a grain of true originality, and she did not let it trouble her too much. Perhaps a certain kind of pride came to her help. She made her first concession to the demands of practical life with great resolution when she consented to marry Ptitsin. However, when she married she did not say to herself, "Never mind a mean action if it leads to the end in view," as her brother would certainly have said in such a case; it is quite probable that he may have by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 290 said it when he expressed his elder-brotherly satisfaction at her decision. Far from this; Varvara Ardalionovna did not marry until she felt convinced that her future husband was unassuming, agreeable, almost cultured, and that nothing on earth would tempt him to a really dishonourable deed. As to small meannesses, such trifles did not trouble her. Indeed, who is free from them? It is absurd to expect the ideal! Besides, she knew that her marriage would provide a refuge for all her family. Seeing Gania unhappy, she was anxious to help him, in spite of their former disputes and misunderstandings. Ptitsin, in a friendly way, would press his brother-in-law to enter the army. "You know," he said sometimes, jokingly, "you despise generals and generaldom, but you will see that 'they' will all end by being generals in their turn. You will see it if you live long enough!" "But why should they suppose that I despise generals?" Gania thought sarcastically to himself. To serve her brother's interests, Varvara Ardalionovna was constantly at the Epanchins' house, helped by the fact that in childhood she and Gania had played with General Ivan Fedorovitch's daughters. It would have been inconsistent with her character if in these visits she had been pursuing a chimera; her project was not chimerical at all; she was building on a firm basis--on her knowledge of the character of the Epanchin family, especially Aglaya, whom she studied closely. All Varvara's efforts were directed towards bringing Aglaya and Gania together. Perhaps she achieved some result; perhaps, also, she made the mistake of depending too much upon her brother, and expecting more from him than he would ever be capable of giving. However this may be, her manoeuvres were skilful enough. For weeks at a time she would never mention Gania. Her attitude was modest but dignified, and she was always extremely truthful and sincere. Examining the depths of her conscience, she found nothing to reproach herself with, and this still further strengthened her in her designs. But Varvara Ardalionovna sometimes remarked that she felt spiteful; that there was a good deal of vanity in her, perhaps even of wounded vanity. She noticed this at certain times more than at others, and especially after her visits to the Epanchins. Today, as I have said, she returned from their house with a heavy feeling of dejection. There was a sensation of bitterness, a sort of mocking contempt, mingled with it. Arrived at her own house, Varia heard a considerable commotion going on in the upper storey, and distinguished the voices of her father and brother. On entering the salon she found Gania pacing up and down at frantic speed, pale with rage and almost tearing his hair. She frowned, and subsided on to the sofa with a tired air, and without taking the trouble to remove her hat. She very well knew that if she kept quiet and asked her brother nothing about his reason for tearing up and down the room, his wrath would fall upon her head. So she hastened to put the question: "The old story, eh?" "Old story? No! Heaven knows what's up now--I don't! Father has simply gone mad; mother's in floods of tears. Upon my word, Varia, I must kick him out of the house; or else go myself," he added, probably remembering that he could not well turn people out of a house which was not his own. "You must make allowances," murmured Varia. "Make allowances? For whom? Him--the old blackguard? No, no, Varia--that won't do! It won't do, I tell you! And look at the swagger of the man! He's all to blame himself, and yet he puts on so much 'side' that you'd think--my word!--'It's too much trouble to go through the gate, you must break the fence for me!' That's the sort of air he puts on; but what's the matter with you, Varia? What a curious expression you have!" "I'm all right," said Varia, in a tone that sounded as though she were all wrong. Gania looked more intently at her. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 291 "You've been THERE?" he asked, suddenly. "Yes." "Did you find out anything?" "Nothing unexpected. I discovered that it's all true. My husband was wiser than either of us. Just as he suspected from the beginning, so it has fallen out. Where is he?" "Out. Well--what has happened?--go on." "The prince is formally engaged to her--that's settled. The elder sisters told me about it. Aglaya has agreed. They don't attempt to conceal it any longer; you know how mysterious and secret they have all been up to now. Adelaida's wedding is put off again, so that both can be married on one day. Isn't that delightfully romantic? Somebody ought to write a poem on it. Sit down and write an ode instead of tearing up and down like that. This evening Princess Bielokonski is to arrive; she comes just in time--they have a party tonight. He is to be presented to old Bielokonski, though I believe he knows her already; probably the engagement will be openly announced. They are only afraid that he may knock something down, or trip over something when he comes into the room. It would be just like him." Gania listened attentively, but to his sister's astonishment he was by no means so impressed by this news (which should, she thought, have been so important to him) as she had expected. "Well, it was clear enough all along," he said, after a moment's reflection. "So that's the end," he added, with a disagreeable smile, continuing to walk up and down the room, but much slower than before, and glancing slyly into his sister's face. "It's a good thing that you take it philosophically, at all events," said Varia. "I'm really very glad of it." "Yes, it's off our hands--off YOURS, I should say." "I think I have served you faithfully. I never even asked you what happiness you expected to find with Aglaya." "Did I ever expect to find happiness with Aglaya?" "Come, come, don't overdo your philosophy. Of course you did. Now it's all over, and a good thing, too; pair of fools that we have been! I confess I have never been able to look at it seriously. I busied myself in it for your sake, thinking that there was no knowing what might happen with a funny girl like that to deal with. There were ninety to one chances against it. To this moment I can't make out why you wished for it." "H'm! now, I suppose, you and your husband will never weary of egging me on to work again. You'll begin your lectures about perseverance and strength of will, and all that. I know it all by heart," said Gania, laughing. "He's got some new idea in his head," thought Varia. "Are they pleased over there--the parents?" asked Gania, suddenly. "N--no, I don't think they are. You can judge for yourself. I think the general is pleased enough; her mother is a little uneasy. She always loathed the idea of the prince as a HUSBAND; everybody knows that." "Of course, naturally. The bridegroom is an impossible and ridiculous one. I mean, has SHE given her formal by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 292 consent?" "She has not said 'no,' up to now, and that's all. It was sure to be so with her. You know what she is like. You know how absurdly shy she is. You remember how she used to hide in a cupboard as a child, so as to avoid seeing visitors, for hours at a time. She is just the same now; but, do you know, I think there is something serious in the matter, even from her side; I feel it, somehow. She laughs at the prince, they say, from morn to night in order to hide her real feelings; but you may be sure she finds occasion to say something or other to him on the sly, for he himself is in a state of radiant happiness. He walks in the clouds; they say he is extremely funny just now; I heard it from themselves. They seemed to be laughing at me in their sleeves-- those elder girls--I don't know why." Gania had begun to frown, and probably Varia added this last sentence in order to probe his thought. However, at this moment, the noise began again upstairs. "I'll turn him out!" shouted Gania, glad of the opportunity of venting his vexation. "I shall just turn him out--we can't have this." "Yes, and then he'll go about the place and disgrace us as he did yesterday." "How 'as he did yesterday'? What do you mean? What did he do yesterday?" asked Gania, in alarm. "Why, goodness me, don't you know?" Varia stopped short. "What? You don't mean to say that he went there yesterday!" cried Gania, flushing red with shame and anger. "Good heavens, Varia! Speak! You have just been there. WAS he there or not, QUICK?" And Gania rushed for the door. Varia followed and caught him by both hands. "What are you doing? Where are you going to? You can't let him go now; if you do he'll go and do something worse." "What did he do there? What did he say?" "They couldn't tell me themselves; they couldn't make head or tail of it; but he frightened them all. He came to see the general, who was not at home; so he asked for Lizabetha Prokofievna. First of all, he begged her for some place, or situation, for work of some kind, and then he began to complain about US, about me and my husband, and you, especially YOU; he said a lot of things." "Oh! couldn't you find out?" muttered Gania, trembling hysterically. "No--nothing more than that. Why, they couldn't understand him themselves; and very likely didn't tell me all." Gania seized his head with both hands and tottered to the window; Varia sat down at the other window. "Funny girl, Aglaya," she observed, after a pause. "When she left me she said, 'Give my special and personal respects to your parents; I shall certainly find an opportunity to see your father one day,' and so serious over it. She's a strange creature." "Wasn't she joking? She was speaking sarcastically!" "Not a bit of it; that's just the strange part of it." "Does she know about father, do you think--or not?" "That they do NOT know about it in the house is quite certain, the rest of them, I mean; but you have given me an idea. Aglaya perhaps knows. She alone, though, if anyone; for the sisters were as astonished as I was to by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 293 hear her speak so seriously. If she knows, the prince must have told her." "Oh! it's not a great matter to guess who told her. A thief! A thief in our family, and the head of the family, too!" "Oh! nonsense!" cried Varia, angrily. "That was nothing but a drunkard's tale. Nonsense! Why, who invented the whole thing-- Lebedeff and the prince--a pretty pair! Both were probably drunk." "Father is a drunkard and a thief; I am a beggar, and the husband of my sister is a usurer," continued Gania, bitterly. "There was a pretty list of advantages with which to enchant the heart of Aglaya." "That same husband of your sister, the usurer--" "Feeds me? Go on. Don't stand on ceremony, pray." "Don't lose your temper. You are just like a schoolboy. You think that all this sort of thing would harm you in Aglaya's eyes, do you? You little know her character. She is capable of refusing the most brilliant party, and running away and starving in a garret with some wretched student; that's the sort of girl she is. You never could or did understand how interesting you would have seen in her eyes if you had come firmly and proudly through our misfortunes. The prince has simply caught her with hook and line; firstly, because he never thought of fishing for her, and secondly, because he is an idiot in the eyes of most people. It's quite enough for her that by accepting him she puts her family out and annoys them all round--that's what she likes. You don't understand these things." "We shall see whether I understand or no!" said Gania, enigmatically. "But I shouldn't like her to know all about father, all the same. I thought the prince would manage to hold his tongue about this, at least. He prevented Lebedeff spreading the news--he wouldn't even tell me all when I asked him--" "Then you must see that he is not responsible. What does it matter to you now, in any case? What are you hoping for still? If you HAVE a hope left, it is that your suffering air may soften her heart towards you." "Oh, she would funk a scandal like anyone else. You are all tarred with one brush!" "What! AGLAYA would have funked? You are a chicken-hearted fellow, Gania!" said Varia, looking at her brother with contempt. "Not one of us is worth much. Aglaya may be a wild sort of a girl, but she is far nobler than any of us, a thousand times nobler!" "Well--come! there's nothing to get cross about," said Gania. "All I'm afraid of is--mother. I'm afraid this scandal about father may come to her ears; perhaps it has already. I am dreadfully afraid." "It undoubtedly has already!" observed Gania. Varia had risen from her place and had started to go upstairs to her mother; but at this observation of Gania's she turned and gazed at him attentively. "Who could have told her?" "Hippolyte, probably. He would think it the most delightful amusement in the world to tell her of it the instant he moved over here; I haven't a doubt of it." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 294 "But how could he know anything of it? Tell me that. Lebedeff and the prince determined to tell no one--even Colia knows nothing." "What, Hippolyte? He found it out himself, of course. Why, you have no idea what a cunning little animal he is; dirty little gossip! He has the most extraordinary nose for smelling out other people's secrets, or anything approaching to scandal. Believe it or not, but I'm pretty sure he has got round Aglaya. If he hasn't, he soon will. Rogojin is intimate with him, too. How the prince doesn't notice it, I can't understand. The little wretch considers me his enemy now and does his best to catch me tripping. What on earth does it matter to him, when he's dying? However, you'll see; I shall catch HIM tripping yet, and not he me." "Why did you get him over here, if you hate him so? And is it really worth your while to try to score off him?" "Why, it was yourself who advised me to bring him over!" "I thought he might be useful. You know he is in love with Aglaya himself, now, and has written to her; he has even written to Lizabetha Prokofievna!" "Oh! he's not dangerous there!" cried Gania, laughing angrily. "However, I believe there is something of that sort in the air; he is very likely to be in love, for he is a mere boy. But he won't write anonymous letters to the old lady; that would be too audacious a thing for him to attempt; but I dare swear the very first thing he did was to show me up to Aglaya as a base deceiver and intriguer. I confess I was fool enough to attempt something through him at first. I thought he would throw himself into my service out of revengeful feelings towards the prince, the sly little beast! But I know him better now. As for the theft, he may have heard of it from the widow in Petersburg, for if the old man committed himself to such an act, he can have done it for no other object but to give the money to her. Hippolyte said to me, without any prelude, that the general had promised the widow four hundred roubles. Of course I understood, and the little wretch looked at me with a nasty sort of satisfaction. I know him; you may depend upon it he went and told mother too, for the pleasure of wounding her. And why doesn't he die, I should like to know? He undertook to die within three weeks, and here he is getting fatter. His cough is better, too. It was only yesterday that he said that was the second day he hadn't coughed blood." "Well, turn him out!" "I don't HATE, I despise him," said Gania, grandly. "Well, I do hate him, if you like!" he added, with a sudden access of rage, "and I'll tell him so to his face, even when he's dying! If you had but read his confession--good Lord! what refinement of impudence! Oh, but I'd have liked to whip him then and there, like a schoolboy, just to see how surprised he would have been! Now he hates everybody because he--Oh, I say, what on earth are they doing there! Listen to that noise! I really can't stand this any longer. Ptitsin!" he cried, as the latter entered the room, "what in the name of goodness are we coming to? Listen to that--" But the noise came rapidly nearer, the door burst open, and old General Ivolgin, raging, furious, purple-faced, and trembling with anger, rushed in. He was followed by Nina Alexandrovna, Colia, and behind the rest, Hippolyte. II. HIPPOLYTE had now been five days at the Ptitsins'. His flitting from the prince's to these new quarters had been brought about quite naturally and without many words. He did not quarrel with the prince--in fact, they seemed to part as friends. Gania, who had been hostile enough on that eventful evening, had himself come to see him a couple of days later, probably in obedience to some sudden impulse. For some reason or other, Rogojin too had begun to visit the sick boy. The prince thought it might be better for him to move away from by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 295 his (the prince's) house. Hippolyte informed him, as he took his leave, that Ptitsin "had been kind enough to offer him a corner," and did not say a word about Gania, though Gania had procured his invitation, and himself came to fetch him away. Gania noticed this at the time, and put it to Hippolyte's debit on account. Gania was right when he told his sister that Hippolyte was getting better; that he was better was clear at the first glance. He entered the room now last of all, deliberately, and with a disagreeable smile on his lips. Nina Alexandrovna came in, looking frightened. She had changed much since we last saw her, half a year ago, and had grown thin and pale. Colia looked worried and perplexed. He could not understand the vagaries of the general, and knew nothing of the last achievement of that worthy, which had caused so much commotion in the house. But he could see that his father had of late changed very much, and that he had begun to behave in so extraordinary a fashion both at home and abroad that he was not like the same man. What perplexed and disturbed him as much as anything was that his father had entirely given up drinking during the last few days. Colia knew that he had quarrelled with both Lebedeff and the prince, and had just bought a small bottle of vodka and brought it home for his father. "Really, mother," he had assured Nina Alexandrovna upstairs, "really you had better let him drink. He has not had a drop for three days; he must be suffering agonies--The general now entered the room, threw the door wide open, and stood on the threshold trembling with indignation. "Look here, my dear sir," he began, addressing Ptitsin in a very loud tone of voice; "if you have really made up your mind to sacrifice an old man--your father too or at all events father of your wife--an old man who has served his emperor--to a wretched little atheist like this, all I can say is, sir, my foot shall cease to tread your floors. Make your choice, sir; make your choice quickly, if you please! Me or this--screw! Yes, screw, sir; I said it accidentally, but let the word stand--this screw, for he screws and drills himself into my soul--" "Hadn't you better say corkscrew?" said Hippolyte. "No, sir, NOT corkscrew. I am a general, not a bottle, sir. Make your choice, sir--me or him." Here Colia handed him a chair, and he subsided into it, breathless with rage. "Hadn't you better--better--take a nap?" murmured the stupefied Ptitsin. "A nap?" shrieked the general. "I am not drunk, sir; you insult me! I see," he continued, rising, "I see that all are against me here. Enough--I go; but know, sirs--know that--" He was not allowed to finish his sentence. Somebody pushed him back into his chair, and begged him to be calm. Nina Alexandrovna trembled, and cried quietly. Gania retired to the window in disgust. "But what have I done? What is his grievance?" asked Hippolyte, grinning. "What have you done, indeed?" put in Nina Alexandrovna. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, teasing an old man like that-- and in your position, too." "And pray what IS my position, madame? I have the greatest respect for you, personally; but--" "He's a little screw," cried the general; "he drills holes my heart and soul. He wishes me to be a pervert to atheism. Know, you young greenhorn, that I was covered with honours before ever you were born; and you are nothing better than a wretched little worm, torn in two with coughing, and dying slowly of your own malice and unbelief. What did Gavrila bring you over here for? They're all against me, even to my own son--all against me." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 296 "Oh, come--nonsense!" cried Gania; "if you did not go shaming us all over the town, things might be better for all parties." "What--shame you? I?--what do you mean, you young calf? I shame you? I can only do you honour, sir; I cannot shame you." He jumped up from his chair in a fit of uncontrollable rage. Gania was very angry too. "Honour, indeed!" said the latter, with contempt. "What do you say, sir?" growled the general, taking a step towards him. "I say that I have but to open my mouth, and you--" Gania began, but did not finish. The two--father and son--stood before one another, both unspeakably agitated, especially Gania. "Gania, Gania, reflect!" cried his mother, hurriedly. "It's all nonsense on both sides," snapped out Varia. "Let them alone, mother." "It's only for mother's sake that I spare him," said Gania, tragically. "Speak!" said the general, beside himself with rage and excitement; "speak--under the penalty of a father's curse "Oh, father's curse be hanged--you don't frighten me that way!" said Gania. "Whose fault is it that you have been as mad as a March hare all this week? It is just a week--you see, I count the days. Take care now; don't provoke me too much, or I'll tell all. Why did you go to the Epanchins' yesterday--tell me that? And you call yourself an old man, too, with grey hair, and father of a family! H'm--nice sort of a father." "Be quiet, Gania," cried Colia. "Shut up, you fool!" "Yes, but how have I offended him?" repeated Hippolyte, still in the same jeering voice. " Why does he call me a screw? You all heard it. He came to me himself and began telling me about some Captain Eropegoff. I don't wish for your company, general. I always avoided you--you know that. What have I to do with Captain Eropegoff? All I did was to express my opinion that probably Captain Eropegoff never existed at all!" "Of course he never existed!" Gania interrupted. But the general only stood stupefied and gazed around in a dazed way. Gania's speech had impressed him, with its terrible candour. For the first moment or two he could find no words to answer him, and it was only when Hippolyte burst out laughing, and said: "There, you see! Even your own son supports my statement that there never was such a person as Captain Eropegoff!" that the old fellow muttered confusedly: "Kapiton Eropegoff--not Captain Eropegoff!--Kapiton--major retired--Eropegoff--Kapiton." "Kapiton didn't exist either!" persisted Gania, maliciously. "What? Didn't exist?" cried the poor general, and a deep blush suffused his face. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 297 "That'll do, Gania!" cried Varia and Ptitsin. "Shut up, Gania!" said Colia. But this intercession seemed to rekindle the general. "What did you mean, sir, that he didn't exist? Explain yourself," he repeated, angrily. "Because he DIDN'T exist--never could and never did--there! You'd better drop the subject, I warn you!" "And this is my son--my own son--whom I--oh, gracious Heaven! Eropegoff--Eroshka Eropegoff didn't exist!" "Ha, ha! it's Eroshka now," laughed Hippolyte. "No, sir, Kapitoshka--not Eroshka. I mean, Kapiton Alexeyevitch-- retired major--married Maria Petrovna Lu--Lu--he was my friend and companion--Lutugoff--from our earliest beginnings. I closed his eyes for him--he was killed. Kapiton Eropegoff never existed! tfu!" The general shouted in his fury; but it was to be concluded that his wrath was not kindled by the expressed doubt as to Kapiton's existence. This was his scapegoat; but his excitement was caused by something quite different. As a rule he would have merely shouted down the doubt as to Kapiton, told a long yarn about his friend, and eventually retired upstairs to his room. But today, in the strange uncertainty of human nature, it seemed to require but so small an offence as this to make his cup to overflow. The old man grew purple in the face, he raised his hands. "Enough of this!" he yelled. "My curse--away, out of the house I go! Colia, bring my bag away!" He left the room hastily and in a paroxysm of rage. His wife, Colia, and Ptitsin ran out after him. "What have you done now?" said Varia to Gania. "He'll probably be making off THERE again! What a disgrace it all is!" "Well, he shouldn't steal," cried Gania, panting with fury. And just at this moment his eye met Hippolyte's. "As for you, sir," he cried, "you should at least remember that you are in a strange house and--receiving hospitality; you should not take the opportunity of tormenting an old man, sir, who is too evidently out of his mind." Hippolyte looked furious, but he restrained himself. "I don't quite agree with you that your father is out of his mind," he observed, quietly. "On the contrary, I cannot help thinking he has been less demented of late. Don't you think so? He has grown so cunning and careful, and weighs his words so deliberately; he spoke to me about that Kapiton fellow with an object, you know! Just fancy--he wanted me to--" "Oh, devil take what he wanted you to do! Don't try to be too cunning with me, young man!" shouted Gania. "If you are aware of the real reason for my father's present condition (and you have kept such an excellent spying watch during these last few days that you are sure to be aware of it)--you had no right whatever to torment the--unfortunate man, and to worry my mother by your exaggerations of the affair; because the whole business is nonsense--simply a drunken freak, and nothing more, quite unproved by any evidence, and I don't believe that much of it!" (he snapped his fingers). "But you must needs spy and watch over us all, because you are a-a--" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 298 "Screw!" laughed Hippolyte. "Because you are a humbug, sir; and thought fit to worry people for half an hour, and tried to frighten them into believing that you would shoot yourself with your little empty pistol, pirouetting about and playing at suicide! I gave you hospitality, you have fattened on it, your cough has left you, and you repay all this--" "Excuse me--two words! I am Varvara Ardalionovna's guest, not yours; YOU have extended no hospitality to me. On the contrary, if I am not mistaken, I believe you are yourself indebted to Mr. Ptitsin's hospitality. Four days ago I begged my mother to come down here and find lodgings, because I certainly do feel better here, though I am not fat, nor have I ceased to cough. I am today informed that my room is ready for me; therefore, having thanked your sister and mother for their kindness to me, I intend to leave the house this evening. I beg your pardon--I interrupted you--I think you were about to add something?" "Oh--if that is the state of affairs--" began Gania. "Excuse me--I will take a seat," interrupted Hippolyte once more, sitting down deliberately; "for I am not strong yet. Now then, I am ready to hear you. Especially as this is the last chance we shall have of a talk, and very likely the last meeting we shall ever have at all." Gania felt a little guilty. "I assure you I did not mean to reckon up debits and credits," he began, "and if you--" "I don't understand your condescension," said Hippolyte. "As for me, I promised myself, on the first day of my arrival in this house, that I would have the satisfaction of settling accounts with you in a very thorough manner before I said good-bye to you. I intend to perform this operation now, if you like; after you, though, of course." "May I ask you to be so good as to leave this room?" "You'd better speak out. You'll be sorry afterwards if you don't." "Hippolyte, stop, please! It's so dreadfully undignified," said Varia. "Well, only for the sake of a lady," said Hippolyte, laughing. "I am ready to put off the reckoning, but only put it off, Varvara Ardalionovna, because an explanation between your brother and myself has become an absolute necessity, and I could not think of leaving the house without clearing up all misunderstandings first." "In a word, you are a wretched little scandal-monger," cried Gania, "and you cannot go away without a scandal!" "You see," said Hippolyte, coolly, " you can't restrain yourself. You'll be dreadfully sorry afterwards if you don't speak out now. Come, you shall have the first say. I'll wait." Gania was silent and merely looked contemptuously at him. "You won't? Very well. I shall be as short as possible, for my part. Two or three times to-day I have had the word 'hospitality' pushed down my throat; this is not fair. In inviting me here you yourself entrapped me for your own use; you thought I wished to revenge myself upon the prince. You heard that Aglaya Ivanovna had been kind to me and read my confession. Making sure that I should give myself up to your interests, you hoped that you might get some assistance out of me. I will not go into details. I don't ask either admission or confirmation of this from yourself; I am quite content to leave you to your conscience, and to feel that we by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 299 understand one another capitally." "What a history you are weaving out of the most ordinary circumstances!" cried Varia. "I told you the fellow was nothing but a scandalmonger," said Gania. "Excuse me, Varia Ardalionovna, I will proceed. I can, of course, neither love nor respect the prince, though he is a good-hearted fellow, if a little queer. But there is no need whatever for me to hate him. I quite understood your brother when he first offered me aid against the prince, though I did not show it; I knew well that your brother was making a ridiculous mistake in me. I am ready to spare him, however, even now; but solely out of respect for yourself, Varvara Ardalionovna. "Having now shown you that I am not quite such a fool as I look, and that I have to be fished for with a rod and line for a good long while before I am caught, I will proceed to explain why I specially wished to make your brother look a fool. That my motive power is hate, I do not attempt to conceal. I have felt that before dying (and I am dying, however much fatter I may appear to you), I must absolutely make a fool of, at least, one of that class of men which has dogged me all my life, which I hate so cordially, and which is so prominently represented by your much esteemed brother. I should not enjoy paradise nearly so much without having done this first. I hate you, Gavrila Ardalionovitch, solely (this may seem curious to you, but I repeat)--solely because you are the type, and incarnation, and head, and crown of the most impudent, the most self-satisfied, the most vulgar and detestable form of commonplaceness. You are ordinary of the ordinary; you have no chance of ever fathering the pettiest idea of your own. And yet you are as jealous and conceited as you can possibly be; you consider yourself a great genius; of this you are persuaded, although there are dark moments of doubt and rage, when even this fact seems uncertain. There are spots of darkness on your horizon, though they will disappear when you become completely stupid. But a long and chequered path lies before you, and of this I am glad. In the first place you will never gain a certain person." "Come, come! This is intolerable! You had better stop, you little mischief-making wretch!" cried Varia. Gania had grown very pale; he trembled, but said nothing. Hippolyte paused, and looked at him intently and with great gratification. He then turned his gaze upon Varia, bowed, and went out, without adding another word. Gania might justly complain of the hardness with which fate treated him. Varia dared not speak to him for a long while, as he strode past her, backwards and forwards. At last he went and stood at the window, looking out, with his back turned towards her. There was a fearful row going on upstairs again. "Are you off?" said Gania, suddenly, remarking that she had risen and was about to leave the room. "Wait a moment--look at this." He approached the table and laid a small sheet of paper before her. It looked like a little note. "Good heavens!" cried Varia, raising her hands. This was the note: "GAVRILA ARDOLIONOVITCH,--persuaded of your kindness of heart, I have determined to ask your advice on a matter of great importance to myself. I should like to meet you tomorrow morning at seven o'clock by the green bench in the park. It is not far from our house. Varvara Ardalionovna, who must accompany you, knows the place well. "A. E." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 300 "What on earth is one to make of a girl like that?" said Varia. Gania, little as he felt inclined for swagger at this moment, could not avoid showing his triumph, especially just after such humiliating remarks as those of Hippolyte. A smile of self- satisfaction beamed on his face, and Varia too was brimming over with delight. "And this is the very day that they were to announce the engagement! What will she do next?" "What do you suppose she wants to talk about tomorrow?" asked Gania. "Oh, THAT'S all the same! The chief thing is that she wants to see you after six months' absence. Look here, Gania, this is a SERIOUS business. Don't swagger again and lose the game--play carefully, but don't funk, do you understand? As if she could possibly avoid seeing what I have been working for all this last six months! And just imagine, I was there this morning and not a word of this! I was there, you know, on the sly. The old lady did not know, or she would have kicked me out. I ran some risk for you, you see. I did so want to find out, at all hazards." Here there was a frantic noise upstairs once more; several people seemed to be rushing downstairs at once. "Now, Gania," cried Varia, frightened, "we can't let him go out! We can't afford to have a breath of scandal about the town at this moment. Run after him and beg his pardon--quick." But the father of the family was out in the road already. Colia was carrying his bag for him; Nina Alexandrovna stood and cried on the doorstep; she wanted to run after the general, but Ptitsin kept her back. "You will only excite him more," he said. "He has nowhere else to go to--he'll be back here in half an hour. I've talked it all over with Colia; let him play the fool a bit, it will do him good." "What are you up to? Where are you off to? You've nowhere to go to, you know," cried Gania, out of the window. "Come back, father; the neighbours will hear!" cried Varia. The general stopped, turned round, raised his hands and remarked: "My curse be upon this house!" "Which observation should always be made in as theatrical a tone as possible," muttered Gania, shutting the window with a bang. The neighbours undoubtedly did hear. Varia rushed out of the room. No sooner had his sister left him alone, than Gania took the note out of his pocket, kissed it, and pirouetted around. III. As a general rule, old General Ivolgin's paroxysms ended in smoke. He had before this experienced fits of sudden fury, but not very often, because he was really a man of peaceful and kindly disposition. He had tried hundreds of times to overcome the dissolute habits which he had contracted of late years. He would suddenly remember that he was "a father," would be reconciled with his wife, and shed genuine tears. His feeling for Nina Alexandrovna amounted almost to adoration; she had pardoned so much in silence, and loved him still in spite of the state of degradation into which he had fallen. But the general's struggles with his own weakness never lasted very long. He was, in his way, an impetuous man, and a quiet life of repentance in the bosom of by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 301 his family soon became insupportable to him. In the end he rebelled, and flew into rages which he regretted, perhaps, even as he gave way to them, but which were beyond his control. He picked quarrels with everyone, began to hold forth eloquently, exacted unlimited respect, and at last disappeared from the house, and sometimes did not return for a long time. He had given up interfering in the affairs of his family for two years now, and knew nothing about them but what he gathered from hearsay. But on this occasion there was something more serious than usual. Everyone seemed to know something, but to be afraid to talk about it. The general had turned up in the bosom of his family two or three days before, but not, as usual, with the olive branch of peace in his hand, not in the garb of penitence--in which he was usually clad on such occasions--but, on the contrary, in an uncommonly bad temper. He had arrived in a quarrelsome mood, pitching into everyone he came across, and talking about all sorts and kinds of subjects in the most unexpected manner, so that it was impossible to discover what it was that was really putting him out. At moments he would be apparently quite bright and happy; but as a rule he would sit moody and thoughtful. He would abruptly commence to hold forth about the Epanchins, about Lebedeff, or the prince, and equally abruptly would stop short and refuse to speak another word, answering all further questions with a stupid smile, unconscious that he was smiling, or that he had been asked a question. The whole of the previous night he had spent tossing about and groaning, and poor Nina Alexandrovna had been busy making cold compresses and warm fomentations and so on, without being very clear how to apply them. He had fallen asleep after a while, but not for long, and had awaked in a state of violent hypochondria which had ended in his quarrel with Hippolyte, and the solemn cursing of Ptitsin's establishment generally. It was also observed during those two or three days that he was in a state of morbid self-esteem, and was specially touchy on all points of honour. Colia insisted, in discussing the matter with his mother, that all this was but the outcome of abstinence from drink, or perhaps of pining after Lebedeff, with whom up to this time the general had been upon terms of the greatest friendship; but with whom, for some reason or other, he had quarrelled a few days since, parting from him in great wrath. There had also been a scene with the prince. Colia had asked an explanation of the latter, but had been forced to conclude that he was not told the whole truth. If Hippolyte and Nina Alexandrovna had, as Gania suspected, had some special conversation about the general's actions, it was strange that the malicious youth, whom Gania had called a scandal-monger to his face, had not allowed himself a similar satisfaction with Colia. The fact is that probably Hippolyte was not quite so black as Gania painted him; and it was hardly likely that he had informed Nina Alexandrovna of certain events, of which we know, for the mere pleasure of giving her pain. We must never forget that human motives are generally far more complicated than we are apt to suppose, and that we can very rarely accurately describe the motives of another. It is much better for the writer, as a rule, to content himself with the bare statement of events; and we shall take this line with regard to the catastrophe recorded above, and shall state the remaining events connected with the general's trouble shortly, because we feel that we have already given to this secondary character in our story more attention than we originally intended. The course of events had marched in the following order. When Lebedeff returned, in company with the general, after their expedition to town a few days since, for the purpose of investigation, he brought the prince no information whatever. If the latter had not himself been occupied with other thoughts and impressions at the time, he must have observed that Lebedeff not only was very uncommunicative, but even appeared anxious to avoid him. When the prince did give the matter a little attention, he recalled the fact that during these days he had always found Lebedeff to be in radiantly good spirits, when they happened to meet; and further, that the general and Lebedeff were always together. The two friends did not seem ever to be parted for a moment. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 302 Occasionally the prince heard loud talking and laughing upstairs, and once he detected the sound of a jolly soldier's song going on above, and recognized the unmistakable bass of the general's voice. But the sudden outbreak of song did not last; and for an hour afterwards the animated sound of apparently drunken conversation continued to be heard from above. At length there was the clearest evidence of a grand mutual embracing, and someone burst into tears. Shortly after this, however, there was a violent but short-lived quarrel, with loud talking on both sides. All these days Colia had been in a state of great mental preoccupation. Muishkin was usually out all day, and only came home late at night. On his return he was invariably informed that Colia had been looking for him. However, when they did meet, Colia never had anything particular to tell him, excepting that he was highly dissatisfied with the general and his present condition of mind and behaviour. "They drag each other about the place," he said, and get drunk together at the pub close by here, and quarrel in the street on the way home, and embrace one another after it, and don't seem to part for a moment." When the prince pointed out that there was nothing new about that, for that they had always behaved in this manner together, Colia did not know what to say; in fact he could not explain what it was that specially worried him, just now, about his father. On the morning following the bacchanalian songs and quarrels recorded above, as the prince stepped out of the house at about eleven o'clock, the general suddenly appeared before him, much agitated. "I have long sought the honour and opportunity of meeting you-- much-esteemed Lef Nicolaievitch," he murmured, pressing the prince's hand very hard, almost painfully so; "long--very long." The prince begged him to step in and sit down. "No--I will not sit down,--I am keeping you, I see,--another time!--I think I may be permitted to congratulate you upon the realization of your heart's best wishes, is it not so?" "What best wishes?" The prince blushed. He thought, as so many in his position do, that nobody had seen, heard, noticed, or understood anything. "Oh--be easy, sir, be easy! I shall not wound your tenderest feelings. I've been through it all myself, and I know well how unpleasant it is when an outsider sticks his nose in where he is not wanted. I experience this every morning. I came to speak to you about another matter, though, an important matter. A very important matter, prince." The latter requested him to take a seat once more, and sat down himself. "Well--just for one second, then. The fact is, I came for advice. Of course I live now without any very practical objects in life; but, being full of self-respect, in which quality the ordinary Russian is so deficient as a rule, and of activity, I am desirous, in a word, prince, of placing myself and my wife and children in a position of--in fact, I want advice." The prince commended his aspirations with warmth. "Quite so--quite so! But this is all mere nonsense. I came here to speak of something quite different, something very important, prince. And I have determined to come to you as to a man in whose sincerity and nobility of feeling I can trust like--like--are you surprised at my words, prince?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 303 The prince was watching his guest, if not with much surprise, at all events with great attention and curiosity. The old man was very pale; every now and then his lips trembled, and his hands seemed unable to rest quietly, but continually moved from place to place. He had twice already jumped up from his chair and sat down again without being in the least aware of it. He would take up a hook from the table and open it--talking all the while,--look at the heading of a chapter, shut it and put it back again, seizing another immediately, but holding it unopened in his hand, and waving it in the air as he spoke. "But enough!" he cried, suddenly. "I see I have been boring you with my--" "Not in the least--not in the least, I assure you. On the contrary, I am listening most attentively, and am anxious to guess-" "Prince, I wish to place myself in a respectable position--I wish to esteem myself--and to--" "My dear sir, a man of such noble aspirations is worthy of all esteem by virtue of those aspirations alone." The prince brought out his "copy-book sentence" in the firm belief that it would produce a good effect. He felt instinctively that some such well-sounding humbug, brought out at the proper moment, would soothe the old man's feelings, and would be specially acceptable to such a man in such a position. At all hazards, his guest must be despatched with heart relieved and spirit comforted; that was the problem before the prince at this moment. The phrase flattered the general, touched him, and pleased him mightily. He immediately changed his tone, and started off on a long and solemn explanation. But listen as he would, the prince could make neither head nor tail of it. The general spoke hotly and quickly for ten minutes; he spoke as though his words could not keep pace with his crowding thoughts. Tears stood in his eyes, and yet his speech was nothing but a collection of disconnected sentences, without beginning and without end--a string of unexpected words and unexpected sentiments--colliding with one another, and jumping over one another, as they burst from his lips. "Enough!" he concluded at last, "you understand me, and that is the great thing. A heart like yours cannot help understanding the sufferings of another. Prince, you are the ideal of generosity; what are other men beside yourself? But you are young--accept my blessing! My principal object is to beg you to fix an hour for a most important conversation--that is my great hope, prince. My heart needs but a little friendship and sympathy, and yet I cannot always find means to satisfy it." "But why not now? I am ready to listen, and--" "No, no--prince, not now! Now is a dream! And it is too, too important! It is to be the hour of Fate to me--MY OWN hour. Our interview is not to be broken in upon by every chance comer, every impertinent guest--and there are plenty of such stupid, impertinent fellows"--(he bent over and whispered mysteriously, with a funny, frightened look on his face)--"who are unworthy to tie your shoe, prince. I don't say MINE, mind--you will understand me, prince. Only YOU understand me, prince--no one else. HE doesn't understand me, he is absolutely--ABSOLUTELY unable to sympathize. The first qualification for understanding another is Heart." The prince was rather alarmed at all this, and was obliged to end by appointing the same hour of the following day for the interview desired. The general left him much comforted and far less agitated than when he had arrived. At seven in the evening, the prince sent to request Lebedeff to pay him a visit. Lebedeff came at once, and by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 304 "esteemed it an honour," as he observed, the instant he entered the room. He acted as though there had never been the slightest suspicion of the fact that he had systematically avoided the prince for the last three days. He sat down on the edge of his chair, smiling and making faces, and rubbing his hands, and looking as though he were in delighted expectation of hearing some important communication, which had been long guessed by all. The prince was instantly covered with confusion; for it appeared to be plain that everyone expected something of him--that everyone looked at him as though anxious to congratulate him, and greeted him with hints, and smiles, and knowing looks. Keller, for instance, had run into the house three times of late, "just for a moment," and each time with the air of desiring to offer his congratulations. Colia, too, in spite of his melancholy, had once or twice begun sentences in much the same strain of suggestion or insinuation. The prince, however, immediately began, with some show of annoyance, to question Lebedeff categorically, as to the general's present condition, and his opinion thereon. He described the morning's interview in a few words. "Everyone has his worries, prince, especially in these strange and troublous times of ours," Lebedeff replied, drily, and with the air of a man disappointed of his reasonable expectations. "Dear me, what a philosopher you are!" laughed the prince. Philosophy is necessary, sir--very necessary--in our day. It is too much neglected. As for me, much esteemed prince, I am sensible of having experienced the honour of your confidence in a certain matter up to a certain point, but never beyond that point. I do not for a moment complain--" "Lebedeff, you seem to be angry for some reason!" said the prince. "Not the least bit in the world, esteemed and revered prince! Not the least bit in the world!" cried Lebedeff, solemnly, with his hand upon his heart. "On the contrary, I am too painfully aware that neither by my position in the world, nor by my gifts of intellect and heart, nor by my riches, nor by any former conduct of mine, have I in any way deserved your confidence, which is far above my highest aspirations and hopes. Oh no, prince; I may serve you, but only as your humble slave! I am not angry, oh no! Not angry; pained perhaps, but nothing more. "My dear Lebedeff, I--" "Oh, nothing more, nothing more! I was saying to myself but now... 'I am quite unworthy of friendly relations with him,' say I; 'but perhaps as landlord of this house I may, at some future date, in his good time, receive information as to certain imminent and much to be desired changes--'" So saying Lebedeff fixed the prince with his sharp little eyes, still in hope that he would get his curiosity satisfied. The prince looked back at him in amazement. "I don't understand what you are driving at!" he cried, almost angrily, "and, and--what an intriguer you are, Lebedeff!" he added, bursting into a fit of genuine laughter. Lebedeff followed suit at once, and it was clear from his radiant face that he considered his prospects of by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 305 satisfaction immensely improved. "And do you know," the prince continued, "I am amazed at your naive ways, Lebedeff! Don't he angry with me--not only yours, everybody else's also! You are waiting to hear something from me at this very moment with such simplicity that I declare I feel quite ashamed of myself for having nothing whatever to tell you. I swear to you solemnly, that there is nothing to tell. There! Can you take that in?" The prince laughed again. Lebedeff assumed an air of dignity. It was true enough that he was sometimes naive to a degree in his curiosity; but he was also an excessively cunning gentleman, and the prince was almost converting him into an enemy by his repeated rebuffs. The prince did not snub Lebedeff's curiosity, however, because he felt any contempt for him; but simply because the subject was too delicate to talk about. Only a few days before he had looked upon his own dreams almost as crimes. But Lebedeff considered the refusal as caused by personal dislike to himself, and was hurt accordingly. Indeed, there was at this moment a piece of news, most interesting to the prince, which Lebedeff knew and even had wished to tell him, but which he now kept obstinately to himself. "And what can I do for you, esteemed prince? Since I am told you sent for me just now," he said, after a few moments' silence. "Oh, it was about the general," began the prince, waking abruptly from the fit of musing which he too had indulged in "and-and about the theft you told me of." "That is--er--about--what theft?" "Oh come! just as if you didn't understand, Lukian Timofeyovitch! What are you up to? I can't make you out! The money, the money, sir! The four hundred roubles that you lost that day. You came and told me about it one morning, and then went off to Petersburg. There, NOW do you understand?" "Oh--h--h! You mean the four hundred roubles!" said Lebedeff, dragging the words out, just as though it had only just dawned upon him what the prince was talking about. "Thanks very much, prince, for your kind interest--you do me too much honour. I found the money, long ago!" "You found it? Thank God for that!" "Your exclamation proves the generous sympathy of your nature, prince; for four hundred roubles--to a struggling family man like myself--is no small matter!" "I didn't mean that; at least, of course, I'm glad for your sake, too," added the prince, correcting himself, " but--how did you find it?" "Very simply indeed! I found it under the chair upon which my coat had hung; so that it is clear the purse simply fell out of the pocket and on to the floor!" "Under the chair? Impossible! Why, you told me yourself that you had searched every corner of the room? How could you not have looked in the most likely place of all?" "Of course I looked there,--of course I did! Very much so! I looked and scrambled about, and felt for it, and wouldn't believe it was not there, and looked again and again. It is always so in such cases. One longs and expects to find a lost article; one sees it is not there, and the place is as hare as one's palm; and yet one returns and looks again and again, fifteen or twenty times, likely enough!" "Oh, quite so, of course. But how was it in your case?--I don't quite understand," said the bewildered prince. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 306 "You say it wasn't there at first, and that you searched the place thoroughly, and yet it turned up on that very spot!" "Yes, sir--on that very spot." The prince gazed strangely at Lebedeff. "And the general?" he asked, abruptly. "The--the general? How do you mean, the general?" said Lebedeff, dubiously, as though he had not taken in the drift of the prince's remark. "Oh, good heavens! I mean, what did the general say when the purse turned up under the chair? You and he had searched for it together there, hadn't you?" "Quite so--together! But the second time I thought better to say nothing about finding it. I found it alone." "But--why in the world--and the money? Was it all there?" "I opened the purse and counted it myself; right to a single rouble." "I think you might have come and told me," said the prince, thoughtfully. "Oh--I didn't like to disturb you, prince, in the midst of your private and doubtless most interesting personal reflections. Besides, I wanted to appear, myself, to have found nothing. I took the purse, and opened it, and counted the money, and shut it and put it down again under the chair." "What in the world for?" "Oh, just out of curiosity," said Lebedeff, rubbing his hands and sniggering. "What, it's still there then, is it? Ever since the day before yesterday?" "Oh no! You see, I was half in hopes the general might find it. Because if I found it, why should not he too observe an object lying before his very eyes? I moved the chair several times so as to expose the purse to view, but the general never saw it. He is very absent just now, evidently. He talks and laughs and tells stories, and suddenly flies into a rage with me, goodness knows why." "Well, but--have you taken the purse away now?" "No, it disappeared from under the chair in the night." "Where is it now, then?" "Here," laughed Lebedeff, at last, rising to his full height and looking pleasantly at the prince, "here, in the lining of my coat. Look, you can feel it for yourself, if you like!" Sure enough there was something sticking out of the front of the coat--something large. It certainly felt as though it might well be the purse fallen through a hole in the pocket into the lining. "I took it out and had a look at it; it's all right. I've let it slip back into the lining now, as you see, and so I have been walking about ever since yesterday morning; it knocks against my legs when I walk along." "H'm! and you take no notice of it?" "Quite so, I take no notice of it. Ha, ha! and think of this, prince, my pockets are always strong and whole, and by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 307 yet, here in one night, is a huge hole. I know the phenomenon is unworthy of your notice; but such is the case. I examined the hole, and I declare it actually looks as though it had been made with a pen- knife, a most improbable contingency." "And--and--the general?" "Ah, very angry all day, sir; all yesterday and all today. He shows decided bacchanalian predilections at one time, and at another is tearful and sensitive, but at any moment he is liable to paroxysms of such rage that I assure you, prince, I am quite alarmed. I am not a military man, you know. Yesterday we were sitting together in the tavern, and the lining of my coat was-- quite accidentally, of course--sticking out right in front. The general squinted at it, and flew into a rage. He never looks me quite in the face now, unless he is very drunk or maudlin; but yesterday he looked at me in such a way that a shiver went all down my back. I intend to find the purse tomorrow; but till then I am going to have another night of it with him." "What's the good of tormenting him like this?" cried the prince. "I don't torment him, prince, I don't indeed!" cried Lebedeff, hotly. "I love him, my dear sir, I esteem him; and believe it or not, I love him all the better for this business, yes--and value him more." Lebedeff said this so seriously that the prince quite lost his temper with him. "Nonsense! love him and torment him so! Why, by the very fact that he put the purse prominently before you, first under the chair and then in your lining, he shows that he does not wish to deceive you, but is anxious to beg your forgiveness in this artless way. Do you hear? He is asking your pardon. He confides in the delicacy of your feelings, and in your friendship for him. And you can allow yourself to humiliate so thoroughly honest a man!" "Thoroughly honest, quite so, prince, thoroughly honest!" said Lebedeff, with flashing eyes. "And only you, prince, could have found so very appropriate an expression. I honour you for it, prince. Very well, that's settled; I shall find the purse now and not tomorrow. Here, I find it and take it out before your eyes! And the money is all right. Take it, prince, and keep it till tomorrow, will you? Tomorrow or next day I'll take it back again. I think, prince, that the night after its disappearance it was buried under a bush in the garden. So I believe--what do you think of that?" "Well, take care you don't tell him to his face that you have found the purse. Simply let him see that it is no longer in the lining of your coat, and form his own conclusions." "Do you think so? Had I not just better tell him I have found it, and pretend I never guessed where it was?" "No, I don't think so," said the prince, thoughtfully; "it's too late for that--that would be dangerous now. No, no! Better say nothing about it. Be nice with him, you know, but don't show him --oh, YOU know well enough--" "I know, prince, of course I know, but I'm afraid I shall not carry it out; for to do so one needs a heart like your own. He is so very irritable just now, and so proud. At one moment he will embrace me, and the next he flies out at me and sneers at me, and then I stick the lining forward on purpose. Well, au revoir, prince, I see I am keeping you, and boring you, too, interfering with your most interesting private reflections." "Now, do be careful! Secrecy, as before!" "Oh, silence isn't the word! Softly, softly!" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 308 But in spite of this conclusion to the episode, the prince remained as puzzled as ever, if not more so. He awaited next morning's interview with the general most impatiently. IV. THE time appointed was twelve o'clock, and the prince, returning home unexpectedly late, found the general waiting for him. At the first glance, he saw that the latter was displeased, perhaps because he had been kept waiting. The prince apologized, and quickly took a seat. He seemed strangely timid before the general this morning, for some reason, and felt as though his visitor were some piece of china which he was afraid of breaking. On scrutinizing him, the prince soon saw that the general was quite a different man from what he had been the day before; he looked like one who had come to some momentous resolve. His calmness, however, was more apparent than real. He was courteous, but there was a suggestion of injured innocence in his manner. "I've brought your book back," he began, indicating a book lying on the table. "Much obliged to you for lending it to me." "Ah, yes. Well, did you read it, general? It's curious, isn't it?" said the prince, delighted to be able to open up conversation upon an outside subject. "Curious enough, yes, but crude, and of course dreadful nonsense; probably the man lies in every other sentence." The general spoke with considerable confidence, and dragged his words out with a conceited drawl. "Oh, but it's only the simple tale of an old soldier who saw the French enter Moscow. Some of his remarks were wonderfully interesting. Remarks of an eye-witness are always valuable, whoever he be, don't you think so "Had I been the publisher I should not have printed it. As to the evidence of eye-witnesses, in these days people prefer impudent lies to the stories of men of worth and long service. I know of some notes of the year 1812, which--I have determined, prince, to leave this house, Mr. Lebedeff's house." The general looked significantly at his host. "Of course you have your own lodging at Pavlofsk at--at your daughter's house," began the prince, quite at a loss what to say. He suddenly recollected that the general had come for advice on a most important matter, affecting his destiny. "At my wife's; in other words, at my own place, my daughter's house." "I beg your pardon, I--" "I leave Lebedeff's house, my dear prince, because I have quarrelled with this person. I broke with him last night, and am very sorry that I did not do so before. I expect respect, prince, even from those to whom I give my heart, so to speak. Prince, I have often given away my heart, and am nearly always deceived. This person was quite unworthy of the gift." "There is much that might be improved in him," said the prince, moderately, "but he has some qualities which--though amid them one cannot but discern a cunning nature--reveal what is often a diverting intellect." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 309 The prince's tone was so natural and respectful that the general could not possibly suspect him of any insincerity. "Oh, that he possesses good traits, I was the first to show, when I very nearly made him a present of my friendship. I am not dependent upon his hospitality, and upon his house; I have my own family. I do not attempt to justify my own weakness. I have drunk with this man, and perhaps I deplore the fact now, but I did not take him up for the sake of drink alone (excuse the crudeness of the expression, prince); I did not make friends with him for that alone. I was attracted by his good qualities; but when the fellow declares that he was a child in 1812, and had his left leg cut off, and buried in the Vagarkoff cemetery, in Moscow, such a cock-and-bull story amounts to disrespect, my dear sir, to--to impudent exaggeration." "Oh, he was very likely joking; he said it for fun." "I quite understand you. You mean that an innocent lie for the sake of a good joke is harmless, and does not offend the human heart. Some people lie, if you like to put it so, out of pure friendship, in order to amuse their fellows; but when a man makes use of extravagance in order to show his disrespect and to make clear how the intimacy bores him, it is time for a man of honour to break off the said intimacy., and to teach the offender his place." The general flushed with indignation as he spoke. "Oh, but Lebedeff cannot have been in Moscow in 1812. He is much too young; it is all nonsense." "Very well, but even if we admit that he was alive in 1812, can one believe that a French chasseur pointed a cannon at him for a lark, and shot his left leg off? He says he picked his own leg up and took it away and buried it in the cemetery. He swore he had a stone put up over it with the inscription: 'Here lies the leg of Collegiate Secretary Lebedeff,' and on the other side, 'Rest, beloved ashes, till the morn of joy,' and that he has a service read over it every year (which is simply sacrilege), and goes to Moscow once a year on purpose. He invites me to Moscow in order to prove his assertion, and show me his leg's tomb, and the very cannon that shot him; he says it's the eleventh from the gate of the Kremlin, an old-fashioned falconet taken from the French afterwards." "And, meanwhile both his legs are still on his body," said the prince, laughing. "I assure you, it is only an innocent joke, and you need not be angry about it." "Excuse me--wait a minute--he says that the leg we see is a wooden one, made by Tchernosvitoff." "They do say one can dance with those!" "Quite so, quite so; and he swears that his wife never found out that one of his legs was wooden all the while they were married. When I showed him the ridiculousness of all this, he said, 'Well, if you were one of Napoleon's pages in 1812, you might let me bury my leg in the Moscow cemetery.' "Why, did you say--" began the prince, and paused in confusion. The general gazed at his host disdainfully. "Oh, go on," he said, "finish your sentence, by all means. Say how odd it appears to you that a man fallen to such a depth of humiliation as I, can ever have been the actual eye-witness of great events. Go on, I don't mind! Has he found time to tell you scandal about me?" "No, I've heard nothing of this from Lebedeff, if you mean Lebedeff." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 310 "H'm; I thought differently. You see, we were talking over this period of history. I was criticizing a current report of something which then happened, and having been myself an eye- witness of the occurrence--you are smiling, prince--you are looking at my face as if--" "Oh no! not at all--I--" "I am rather young-looking, I know; but I am actually older than I appear to be. I was ten or eleven in the year 1812. I don't know my age exactly, but it has always been a weakness of mine to make it out less than it really is. "I assure you, general, I do not in the least doubt your statement. One of our living autobiographers states that when he was a small baby in Moscow in 1812 the French soldiers fed him with bread." "Well, there you see!" said the general, condescendingly. "There is nothing whatever unusual about my tale. Truth very often appears to be impossible. I was a page--it sounds strange, I dare say. Had I been fifteen years old I should probably have been terribly frightened when the French arrived, as my mother was (who had been too slow about clearing out of Moscow); but as I was only just ten I was not in the least alarmed, and rushed through the crowd to the very door of the palace when Napoleon alighted from his horse." "Undoubtedly, at ten years old you would not have felt the sense of fear, as you say," blurted out the prince, horribly uncomfortable in the sensation that he was just about to blush. "Of course; and it all happened so easily and naturally. And yet, were a novelist to describe the episode, he would put in all kinds of impossible and incredible details." "Oh," cried the prince, "I have often thought that! Why, I know of a murder, for the sake of a watch. It's in all the papers now. But if some writer had invented it, all the critics would have jumped down his throat and said the thing was too improbable for anything. And yet you read it in the paper, and you can't help thinking that out of these strange disclosures is to be gained the full knowledge of Russian life and character. You said that well, general; it is so true," concluded the prince, warmly, delighted to have found a refuge from the fiery blushes which had covered his face. "Yes, it's quite true, isn't it?" cried the general, his eyes sparkling with gratification. "A small boy, a child, would naturally realize no danger; he would shove his way through the crowds to see the shine and glitter of the uniforms, and especially the great man of whom everyone was speaking, for at that time all the world had been talking of no one but this man for some years past. The world was full of his name; I--so to speak--drew it in with my mother's milk. Napoleon, passing a couple of paces from me, caught sight of me accidentally. I was very well dressed, and being all alone, in that crowd, as you will easily imagine... "Oh, of course! Naturally the sight impressed him, and proved to him that not ALL the aristocracy had left Moscow; that at least some nobles and their children had remained behind." Just so just so! He wanted to win over the aristocracy! When his eagle eye fell on me, mine probably flashed back in response.' Voila un garcon bien eveille! Qui est ton pere?' I immediately replied, almost panting with excitement, 'A general, who died on the battle-fields of his country! "Le fils d'un boyard et d'un brave, pardessus le marche. J'aime les boyards. M'aimes-tu, petit?' To this keen question I replied as keenly, 'The Russian heart can recognize a great man even in the bitter enemy of his country.' At least, I don't remember the exact words, you know, but the idea was as I say. Napoleon was struck; he thought a minute and then said to his suite: 'I like that boy's pride; if all Russians think like this child', then he didn't finish, hut went on and entered the palace. I instantly mixed with his suite, and followed him. I was already in high favour. I remember when he came into the first hall, the emperor stopped before a portrait of the Empress Katherine, and after a thoughtful glance remarked, 'That was a great woman,' and passed on. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 311 "Well, in a couple of days I was known all over the palace and the Kremlin as 'le petit boyard.' I only went home to sleep. They were nearly out of their minds about me at home. A couple of days after this, Napoleon's page, De Bazancour, died; he had not been able to stand the trials of the campaign. Napoleon remembered me; I was taken away without explanation; the dead page's uniform was tried on me, and when I was taken before the emperor, dressed in it, he nodded his head to me, and I was told that I was appointed to the vacant post of page. "Well, I was glad enough, for I had long felt the greatest sympathy for this man; and then the pretty uniform and all that-- only a child, you know--and so on. It was a dark green dress coat with gold buttons--red facings, white trousers, and a white silk waistcoat--silk stockings, shoes with buckles, and top-boots if I were riding out with his majesty or with the suite. "Though the position of all of us at that time was not particularly brilliant, and the poverty was dreadful all round, yet the etiquette at court was strictly preserved, and the more strictly in proportion to the growth of the forebodings of disaster." "Quite so, quite so, of course!" murmured the poor prince, who didn't know where to look. "Your memoirs would be most interesting." The general was, of course, repeating what he had told Lebedeff the night before, and thus brought it out glibly enough, but here he looked suspiciously at the prince out of the corners of his eyes. "My memoirs!" he began, with redoubled pride and dignity. "Write my memoirs? The idea has not tempted me. And yet, if you please, my memoirs have long been written, but they shall not see the light until dust returns to dust. Then, I doubt not, they will be translated into all languages, not of course on account of their actual literary merit, but because of the great events of which I was the actual witness, though but a child at the time. As a child, I was able to penetrate into the secrecy of the great man's private room. At nights I have heard the groans and wailings of this 'giant in distress.' He could feel no shame in weeping before such a mere child as I was, though I understood even then that the reason for his suffering was the silence of the Emperor Alexander." "Yes, of course; he had written letters to the latter with proposals of peace, had he not?" put in the prince. "We did not know the details of his proposals, but he wrote letter after letter, all day and every day. He was dreadfully agitated. Sometimes at night I would throw myself upon his breast with tears (Oh, how I loved that man!). 'Ask forgiveness, Oh, ask forgiveness of the Emperor Alexander!' I would cry. I should have said, of course, 'Make peace with Alexander,' but as a child I expressed my idea in the naive way recorded. 'Oh, my child,' he would say (he loved to talk to me and seemed to forget my tender years), 'Oh, my child, I am ready to kiss Alexander's feet, but I hate and abominate the King of Prussia and the Austrian Emperor, and--and--but you know nothing of politics, my child.' He would pull up, remembering whom he was speaking to, but his eyes would sparkle for a long while after this. Well now, if I were to describe all this, and I have seen greater events than these, all these critical gentlemen of the press and political parties--Oh, no thanks! I'm their very humble servant, but no thanks!" "Quite so--parties--you are very right," said the prince. "I was reading a book about Napoleon and the Waterloo campaign only the other day, by Charasse, in which the author does not attempt to conceal his joy at Napoleon's discomfiture at every page. Well now, I don't like that; it smells of 'party,' you know. You are quite right. And were you much occupied with your service under Napoleon?" The general was in ecstasies, for the prince's remarks, made, as they evidently were, in all seriousness and simplicity, quite dissipated the last relics of his suspicion. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 312 "I know Charasse's book! Oh! I was so angry with his work! I wrote to him and said--I forget what, at this moment. You ask whether I was very busy under the Emperor? Oh no! I was called 'page,' but hardly took my duty seriously. Besides, Napoleon very soon lost hope of conciliating the Russians, and he would have forgotten all about me had he not loved me--for personal reasons-- I don't mind saying so now. My heart was greatly drawn to him, too. My duties were light. I merely had to be at the palace occasionally to escort the Emperor out riding, and that was about all. I rode very fairly well. He used to have a ride before dinner, and his suite on those occasions were generally Davoust, myself, and Roustan." "Constant?" said the prince, suddenly, and quite involuntarily. "No; Constant was away then, taking a letter to the Empress Josephine. Instead of him there were always a couple of orderlies--and that was all, excepting, of course, the generals and marshals whom Napoleon always took with him for the inspection of various localities, and for the sake of consultation generally. I remember there was one--Davoust--nearly always with him--a big man with spectacles. They used to argue and quarrel sometimes. Once they were in the Emperor's study together--just those two and myself--I was unobserved--and they argued, and the Emperor seemed to be agreeing to something under protest. Suddenly his eye fell on me and an idea seemed to flash across him. "'Child,' he said, abruptly. 'If I were to recognize the Russian orthodox religion and emancipate the serfs, do you think Russia would come over to me?'" "'Never!' I cried, indignantly." "The Emperor was much struck." "'In the flashing eyes of this patriotic child I read and accept the fiat of the Russian people. Enough, Davoust, it is mere phantasy on our part. Come, let's hear your other project.'" "'Yes, but that was a great idea," said the prince, clearly interested. "You ascribe it to Davoust, do you?" "Well, at all events, they were consulting together at the time. Of course it was the idea of an eagle, and must have originated with Napoleon; but the other project was good too--it was the 'Conseil du lion!' as Napoleon called it. This project consisted in a proposal to occupy the Kremlin with the whole army; to arm and fortify it scientifically, to kill as many horses as could be got, and salt their flesh, and spend the winter there; and in spring to fight their way out. Napoleon liked the idea--it attracted him. We rode round the Kremlin walls every day, and Napoleon used to give orders where they were to be patched, where built up, where pulled down and so on. All was decided at last. They were alone together--those two and myself. "Napoleon was walking up and down with folded arms. I could not take my eyes off his face--my heart beat loudly and painfully. "'I'm off,' said Davoust. 'Where to?' asked Napoleon. "'To salt horse-flesh,' said Davoust. Napoleon shuddered--his fate was being decided. "'Child,' he addressed me suddenly, 'what do you think of our plan?' Of course he only applied to me as a sort of toss-up, you know. I turned to Davoust and addressed my reply to him. I said, as though inspired: "'Escape, general! Go home!--' "The project was abandoned; Davoust shrugged his shoulders and went out, whispering to himself--'Bah, il devient superstitieux!' Next morning the order to retreat was given." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 313 "All this is most interesting," said the prince, very softly, "if it really was so--that is, I mean--" he hastened to correct himself. "Oh, my dear prince," cried the general, who was now so intoxicated with his own narrative that he probably could not have pulled up at the most patent indiscretion. "You say, if it really was so!' There was more--much more, I assure you! These are merely a few little political acts. I tell you I was the eye-witness of the nightly sorrow and groanings of the great man, and of that no one can speak but myself. Towards the end he wept no more, though he continued to emit an occasional groan; but his face grew more overcast day by day, as though Eternity were wrapping its gloomy mantle about him. Occasionally we passed whole hours of silence together at night, Roustan snoring in the next room--that fellow slept like a pig. 'But he's loyal to me and my dynasty,' said Napoleon of him. "Sometimes it was very painful to me, and once he caught me with tears in my eyes. He looked at me kindly. 'You are sorry for me,' he said, 'you, my child, and perhaps one other child--my son, the King of Rome--may grieve for me. All the rest hate me; and my brothers are the first to betray me in misfortune.' I sobbed and threw myself into his arms. He could not resist me--he burst into tears, and our tears mingled as we folded each other in a close embrace. "'Write, oh, write a letter to the Empress Josephine!' I cried, sobbing. Napoleon started, reflected, and said, 'You remind me of a third heart which loves me. Thank you, my friend;' and then and there he sat down and wrote that letter to Josephine, with which Constant was sent off next day." "You did a good action," said the prince, "for in the midst of his angry feelings you insinuated a kind thought into his heart." "Just so, prince, just so. How well you bring out that fact! Because your own heart is good!" cried the ecstatic old gentleman, and, strangely enough, real tears glistened in his eyes." Yes, prince, it was a wonderful spectacle. And, do you know, I all but went off to Paris, and should assuredly have shared his solitary exile with him; but, alas, our destinies were otherwise ordered! We parted, he to his island, where I am sure he thought of the weeping child who had embraced him so affectionately at parting in Moscow; and I was sent off to the cadet corps, where I found nothing but roughness and harsh discipline. Alas, my happy days were done! "'I do not wish to deprive your mother of you, and, therefore, I will not ask you to go with me,' he said, the morning of his departure, 'but I should like to do something for you.' He was mounting his horse as he spoke. 'Write something in my sister's album for me,' I said rather timidly, for he was in a state of great dejection at the moment. He turned, called for a pen, took the album. 'How old is your sister?' he asked, holding the pen in his hand. 'Three years old,' I said. 'Ah, petite fille alors!' and he wrote in the album: 'Ne mentes jamais! NAPOLEON (votre ami sincere).' "Such advice, and at such a moment, you must allow, prince, was--" "Yes, quite so; very remarkable." "This page of the album, framed in gold, hung on the wall of my sister's drawing-room all her life, in the most conspicuous place, till the day of her death; where it is now, I really don't know. Heavens! it's two o'clock! HOW I have kept you, prince! It is really most unpardonable of me. The general rose. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 314 "Oh, not in the least," said the prince. " On the contrary, I have been so much interested, I'm really very much obliged to you." "Prince,", said the general, pressing his hand, and looking at him with flashing eyes, and an expression as though he were under the influence of a sudden thought which had come upon him with stunning force. "Prince, you are so kind, so simple-minded, that sometimes I really feel sorry for you! I gaze at you with a feeling of real affection. Oh, Heaven bless you! May your life blossom and fructify in love. Mine is over. Forgive me, forgive me!" He left the room quickly, covering his face with his hands. The prince could not doubt the sincerity of his agitation. He understood, too, that the old man had left the room intoxicated with his own success. The general belonged to that class of liars, who, in spite of their transports of lying, invariably suspect that they are not believed. On this occasion, when he recovered from his exaltation, he would probably suspect Muishkin of pitying him, and feel insulted. "Have I been acting rightly in allowing him to develop such vast resources of imagination?" the prince asked himself. But his answer was a fit of violent laughter which lasted ten whole minutes. He tried to reproach himself for the laughing fit, but eventually concluded that he needn't do so, since in spite of it he was truly sorry for the old man. The same evening he received a strange letter, short but decided. The general informed him that they must part for ever; that he was grateful, but that even from him he could not accept "signs of sympathy which were humiliating to the dignity of a man already miserable enough." When the prince heard that the old man had gone to Nina Alexandrovna, though, he felt almost easy on his account. We have seen, however, that the general paid a visit to Lizabetha Prokofievna and caused trouble there, the final upshot being that he frightened Mrs. Epanchin, and angered her by bitter hints as to his son Gania. He had been turned out in disgrace, eventually, and this was the cause of his bad night and quarrelsome day, which ended in his sudden departure into the street in a condition approaching insanity, as recorded before. Colia did not understand the position. He tried severity with his father, as they stood in the street after the latter had cursed the household, hoping to bring him round that way. "Well, where are we to go to now, father?" he asked. "You don't want to go to the prince's; you have quarrelled with Lebedeff; you have no money; I never have any; and here we are in the middle of the road, in a nice sort of mess." "Better to be of a mess than in a mess! I remember making a joke something like that at the mess in eighteen hundred and forty-- forty--I forget. 'Where is my youth, where is my golden youth?' Who was it said that, Colia?" "It was Gogol, in Dead Souls, father," cried Colia, glancing at him in some alarm. "'Dead Souls,' yes, of course, dead. When I die, Colia, you must engrave on my tomb: "'Here lies a Dead Soul, Shame pursues me.' "Who said that, Colia?" "I don't know, father." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 315 "There was no Eropegoff? Eroshka Eropegoff?" he cried, suddenly, stopping in the road in a frenzy. "No Eropegoff! And my own son to say it! Eropegoff was in the place of a brother to me for eleven months. I fought a duel for him. He was married afterwards, and then killed on the field of battle. The bullet struck the cross on my breast and glanced off straight into his temple. 'I'll never forget you,' he cried, and expired. I served my country well and honestly, Colia, but shame, shame has pursued me! You and Nina will come to my grave, Colia; poor Nina, I always used to call her Nina in the old days, and how she loved.... Nina, Nina, oh, Nina. What have I ever done to deserve your forgiveness and long-suffering? Oh, Colia, your mother has an angelic spirit, an angelic spirit, Colia!" "I know that, father. Look here, dear old father, come back home! Let's go back to mother. Look, she ran after us when we came out. What have you stopped her for, just as though you didn't take in what I said? Why are you crying, father?" Poor Colia cried himself, and kissed the old man's hands "You kiss my hands, MINE?" "Yes, yes, yours, yours! What is there to surprise anyone in that? Come, come, you mustn't go on like this, crying in the middle of the road; and you a general too, a military man! Come, let's go back." "God bless you, dear boy, for being respectful to a disgraced man. Yes, to a poor disgraced old fellow, your father. You shall have such a son yourself; le roi de Rome. Oh, curses on this house!" "Come, come, what does all this mean?" cried Colia beside himself at last. "What is it? What has happened to you? Why don't you wish to come back home? Why have you gone out of your mind, like this?" "I'll explain it, I'll explain all to you. Don't shout! You shall hear. Le roi de Rome. Oh, I am sad, I am melancholy! "'Nurse, where is your tomb?'" "Who said that, Colia?" "I don't know, I don't know who said it. Come home at once; come on! I'll punch Gania's head myself, if you like--only come. Oh, where are you off to again?" The general was dragging him away towards the door a house near. He sat down on the step, still holding Colia by the hand. "Bend down--bend down your ear. I'll tell you all--disgrace--bend down, I'll tell you in your ear." "What are you dreaming of?" said poor, frightened Colia, stooping down towards the old man, all the same. "Le roi de Rome," whispered the general, trembling all over. "What? What DO you mean? What roi de Rome?" "I-I," the general continued to whisper, clinging more and more tightly to the boy's shoulder. "I--wish--to tell you--all--Maria- -Maria Petrovna--Su--Su--Su......." Colia broke loose, seized his father by the shoulders, and stared into his eyes with frenzied gaze. The old man had grown livid-- his lips were shaking, convulsions were passing over his features. Suddenly he leant over and began to sink slowly into Colia's arms. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 316 "He's got a stroke!" cried Colia, loudly, realizing what was the matter at last. V. IN point of fact, Varia had rather exaggerated the certainty of her news as to the prince's betrothal to Aglaya. Very likely, with the perspicacity of her sex, she gave out as an accomplished fact what she felt was pretty sure to become a fact in a few days. Perhaps she could not resist the satisfaction of pouring one last drop of bitterness into her brother Gania's cup, in spite of her love for him. At all events, she had been unable to obtain any definite news from the Epanchin girls--the most she could get out of them being hints and surmises, and so on. Perhaps Aglaya's sisters had merely been pumping Varia for news while pretending to impart information; or perhaps, again, they had been unable to resist the feminine gratification of teasing a friend--for, after all this time, they could scarcely have helped divining the aim of her frequent visits. On the other hand, the prince, although he had told Lebedeff,--as we know, that nothing had happened, and that he had nothing to impart,--the prince may have been in error. Something strange seemed to have happened, without anything definite having actually happened. Varia had guessed that with her true feminine instinct. How or why it came about that everyone at the Epanchins' became imbued with one conviction--that something very important had happened to Aglaya, and that her fate was in process of settlement--it would be very difficult to explain. But no sooner had this idea taken root, than all at once declared that they had seen and observed it long ago; that they had remarked it at the time of the "poor knight" joke, and even before, though they had been unwilling to believe in such nonsense. So said the sisters. Of course, Lizabetha Prokofievna had foreseen it long before the rest; her "heart had been sore" for a long while, she declared, and it was now so sore that she appeared to be quite overwhelmed, and the very thought of the prince became distasteful to her. There was a question to be decided--most important, but most difficult; so much so, that Mrs. Epanchin did not even see how to put it into words. Would the prince do or not? Was all this good or bad? If good (which might be the case, of course), WHY good? If bad (which was hardly doubtful), WHEREIN, especially, bad? Even the general, the paterfamilias, though astonished at first, suddenly declared that, "upon his honour, he really believed he had fancied something of the kind, after all. At first, it seemed a new idea, and then, somehow, it looked as familiar as possible." His wife frowned him down there. This was in the morning; but in the evening, alone with his wife, he had given tongue again. "Well, really, you know"--(silence)--"of course, you know all this is very strange, if true, which I cannot deny; but"-- (silence).--" But, on the other hand, if one looks things in the face, you know--upon my honour, the prince is a rare good fellow-- and--and--and--well, his name, you know--your family name--all this looks well, and perpetuates the name and title and all that-- which at this moment is not standing so high as it might--from one point of view--don't you know? The world, the world is the world, of course--and people will talk--and--and--the prince has property, you know--if it is not very large--and then he--he--" (Continued silence, and collapse of the general.) Hearing these words from her husband, Lizabetha Prokofievna was driven beside herself. According to her opinion, the whole thing had been one huge, fantastical, absurd, unpardonable mistake. "First of all, this prince is an idiot, and, secondly, he is a fool--knows nothing of the world, and has no place in it. Whom can he be shown to? Where can you take him to? What will old Bielokonski say? We never thought of such a husband as THAT for our Aglaya!" Of course, the last argument was the chief one. The maternal heart trembled with indignation to think of such by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 317 an absurdity, although in that heart there rose another voice, which said: "And WHY is not the prince such a husband as you would have desired for Aglaya?" It was this voice which annoyed Lizabetha Prokofievna more than anything else. For some reason or other, the sisters liked the idea of the prince. They did not even consider it very strange; in a word, they might be expected at any moment to range themselves strongly on his side. But both of them decided to say nothing either way. It had always been noticed in the family that the stronger Mrs. Epanchin's opposition was to any project, the nearer she was, in reality, to giving in. Alexandra, however, found it difficult to keep absolute silence on the subject. Long since holding, as she did, the post of "confidential adviser to mamma," she was now perpetually called in council, and asked her opinion, and especially her assistance, in order to recollect "how on earth all this happened?" Why did no one see it? Why did no one say anything about it? What did all that wretched "poor knight" joke mean? Why was she, Lizabetha Prokofievna, driven to think, and foresee, and worry for everybody, while they all sucked their thumbs, and counted the crows in the garden, and did nothing? At first, Alexandra had been very careful, and had merely replied that perhaps her father's remark was not so far out: that, in the eyes of the world, probably the choice of the prince as a husband for one of the Epanchin girls would be considered a very wise one. Warming up, however, she added that the prince was by no means a fool, and never had been; and that as to "place in the world," no one knew what the position of a respectable person in Russia would imply in a few years--whether it would depend on successes in the government service, on the old system, or what. To all this her mother replied that Alexandra was a freethinker, and that all this was due to that "cursed woman's rights question." Half an hour after this conversation, she went off to town, and thence to the Kammenny Ostrof, ["Stone Island," a suburb and park of St. Petersburg] to see Princess Bielokonski, who had just arrived from Moscow on a short visit. The princess was Aglaya's godmother. "Old Bielokonski"listened to all the fevered and despairing lamentations of Lizabetha Prokofievna without the least emotion; the tears of this sorrowful mother did not evoke answering sighs-- in fact, she laughed at her. She was a dreadful old despot, this princess; she could not allow equality in anything, not even in friendship of the oldest standing, and she insisted on treating Mrs. Epanchin as her protegee, as she had been thirty-five years ago. She could never put up with the independence and energy of Lizabetha's character. She observed that, as usual, the whole family had gone much too far ahead, and had converted a fly into an elephant; that, so far as she had heard their story, she was persuaded that nothing of any seriousness had occurred; that it would surely be better to wait until something DID happen; that the prince, in her opinion, was a very decent young fellow, though perhaps a little eccentric, through illness, and not quite as weighty in the world as one could wish. The worst feature was, she said, Nastasia Philipovna. Lizabetha Prokofievna well understood that the old lady was angry at the failure of Evgenie Pavlovitch--her own recommendation. She returned home to Pavlofsk in a worse humour than when she left, and of course everybody in the house suffered. She pitched into everyone, because, she declared, they had 'gone mad.' Why were things always mismanaged in her house? Why had everybody been in such a frantic hurry in this matter? So far as she could see, nothing whatever had happened. Surely they had better wait and see what was to happen, instead of making mountains out of molehills. And so the conclusion of the matter was that it would be far better to take it quietly, and wait coolly to see what would turn up. But, alas! peace did not reign for more than ten minutes. The first blow dealt to its power was in certain news communicated to Lizabetha Prokofievna as to events which bad happened during her trip to see the princess. (This trip had taken place the day after that on which the prince had turned up at the Epanchins at nearly one o'clock at night, thinking it was nine.) by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 318 The sisters replied candidly and fully enough to their mother's impatient questions on her return. They said, in the first place, that nothing particular had happened since her departure; that the prince had been, and that Aglaya had kept him waiting a long while before she appeared--half an hour, at least; that she had then come in, and immediately asked the prince to have a game of chess; that the prince did not know the game, and Aglaya had beaten him easily; that she had been in a wonderfully merry mood, and had laughed at the prince, and chaffed him so unmercifully that one was quite sorry to see his wretched expression. She had then asked him to play cards--the game called "little fools." At this game the tables were turned completely, for the prince had shown himself a master at it. Aglaya had cheated and changed cards, and stolen others, in the most bare-faced way, but, in spite of everything the prince had beaten her hopelessly five times running, and she had been left "little fool" each time. Aglaya then lost her temper, and began to say such awful things to the prince that he laughed no more, but grew dreadfully pale, especially when she said that she should not remain in the house with him, and that he ought to be ashamed of coming to their house at all, especially at night, "AFTER ALL THAT HAD HAPPENED." So saying, she had left the room, banging the door after her, and the prince went off, looking as though he were on his way to a funeral, in spite of all their attempts at consolation. Suddenly, a quarter of an hour after the prince's departure, Aglaya had rushed out of her room in such a hurry that she had not even wiped her eyes, which were full of tears. She came back because Colia had brought a hedgehog. Everybody came in to see the hedgehog. In answer to their questions Colia explained that the hedgehog was not his, and that he had left another boy, Kostia Lebedeff, waiting for him outside. Kostia was too shy to come in, because he was carrying a hatchet; they had bought the hedgehog and the hatchet from a peasant whom they had met on the road. He had offered to sell them the hedgehog, and they had paid fifty copecks for it; and the hatchet had so taken their fancy that they had made up their minds to buy it of their own accord. On hearing this, Aglaya urged Colia to sell her the hedgehog; she even called him "dear Colia," in trying to coax him. He refused for a long time, but at last he could hold out no more, and went to fetch Kostia Lebedeff. The latter appeared, carrying his hatchet, and covered with confusion. Then it came out that the hedgehog was not theirs, but the property of a schoolmate, one Petroff, who had given them some money to buy Schlosser's History for him, from another schoolfellow who at that moment was driven to raising money by the sale of his books. Colia and Kostia were about to make this purchase for their friend when chance brought the hedgehog to their notice, and they had succumbed to the temptation of buying it. They were now taking Petroff the hedgehog and hatchet which they had bought with his money, instead of Schiosser's History. But Aglaya so entreated them that at last they consented to sell her the hedgehog. As soon as she had got possession of it, she put it in a wicker basket with Colia's help, and covered it with a napkin. Then she said to Colia: "Go and take this hedgehog to the prince from me, and ask him to accept it as a token of my profound respect." Colia joyfully promised to do the errand, but he demanded explanations. "What does the hedgehog mean? What is the meaning of such a present?" Aglaya replied that it was none of his business. " I am sure that there is some allegory about it," Colia persisted. Aglaya grew angry, and called him "a silly boy." "If I did not respect all women in your person," replied Colia, "and if my own principles would permit it, I would soon prove to you, that I know how to answer such an insult!" But, in the end, Colia went off with the hedgehog in great delight, followed by Kostia Lebedeff. Aglaya's annoyance was soon over, and seeing that Colia was swinging the hedgehog's basket violently to and fro, she called out to him from the verandah, as if they had never quarrelled: "Colia, dear, please take care not to drop him!" Colia appeared to have no grudge against her, either, for he stopped, and answered most cordially: "No, I will not drop him! Don't be afraid, Aglaya Ivanovna!" After which he went on his way. Aglaya burst out laughing and ran up to her room, highly delighted. Her good spirits lasted the whole day. All this filled poor Lizabetha's mind with chaotic confusion. What on earth did it all mean? The most disturbing feature was the hedgehog. What was the symbolic signification of a hedgehog? What did they by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 319 understand by it? What underlay it? Was it a cryptic message? Poor General Epanchin "put his foot in it" by answering the above questions in his own way. He said there was no cryptic message at all. As for the hedgehog, it was just a hedgehog, which meant nothing--unless, indeed, it was a pledge of friendship,--the sign of forgetting of offences and so on. At all events, it was a joke, and, of course, a most pardonable and innocent one. We may as well remark that the general had guessed perfectly accurately. The prince, returning home from the interview with Aglaya, had sat gloomy and depressed for half an hour. He was almost in despair when Colia arrived with the hedgehog. Then the sky cleared in a moment. The prince seemed to arise from the dead; he asked Colia all about it, made him repeat the story over and over again, and laughed and shook hands with the boys in his delight. It seemed clear to the prince that Aglaya forgave him, and that he might go there again this very evening; and in his eyes that was not only the main thing, but everything in the world. "What children we are still, Colia!" he cried at last, enthusiastically,--"and how delightful it is that we can be children still!" "Simply--my dear prince,--simply she is in love with you,--that's the whole of the secret!" replied Colia, with authority. The prince blushed, but this time he said nothing. Colia burst out laughing and clapped his hands. A minute later the prince laughed too, and from this moment until the evening he looked at his watch every other minute to see how much time he had to wait before evening came. But the situation was becoming rapidly critical. Mrs. Epanchin could bear her suspense no longer, and in spite of the opposition of husband and daughters, she sent for Aglaya, determined to get a straightforward answer out of her, once for all. "Otherwise," she observed hysterically, "I shall die before evening." It was only now that everyone realized to what a ridiculous dead- lock the whole matter had been brought. Excepting feigned surprise, indignation, laughter, and jeering--both at the prince and at everyone who asked her questions,--nothing could be got out of Aglaya. Lizabetha Prokofievna went to bed and only rose again in time for tea, when the prince might be expected. She awaited him in trembling agitation; and when he at last arrived she nearly went off into hysterics. Muishkin himself came in very timidly. He seemed to feel his way, and looked in each person's eyes in a questioning way,--for Aglaya was absent, which fact alarmed him at once. This evening there were no strangers present--no one but the immediate members of the family. Prince S. was still in town, occupied with the affairs of Evgenie Pavlovitch's uncle. "I wish at least HE would come and say something!" complained poor Lizabetha Prokofievna. The general sat still with a most preoccupied air. The sisters were looking very serious and did not speak a by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 320 word, and Lizabetha Prokofievna did not know how to commence the conversation. At length she plunged into an energetic and hostile criticism of railways, and glared at the prince defiantly. Alas Aglaya still did not come--and the prince was quite lost. He had the greatest difficulty in expressing his opinion that railways were most useful institutions,--and in the middle of his speech Adelaida laughed, which threw him into a still worse state of confusion. At this moment in marched Aglaya, as calm and collected as could be. She gave the prince a ceremonious bow and solemnly took up a prominent position near the big round table. She looked at the prince questioningly. All present realized that the moment for the settlement of perplexities had arrived. "Did you get my hedgehog?" she inquired, firmly and almost angrily. Yes, I got it," said the prince, blushing. "Tell us now, at once, what you made of the present? I must have you answer this question for mother's sake; she needs pacifying, and so do all the rest of the family!" "Look here, Aglaya--" began the general. "This--this is going beyond all limits!" said Lizabetha Prokofievna, suddenly alarmed. "It is not in the least beyond all limits, mamma!" said her daughter, firmly. "I sent the prince a hedgehog this morning, and I wish to hear his opinion of it. Go on, prince." "What--what sort of opinion, Aglaya Ivanovna?" "About the hedgehog." "That is--I suppose you wish to know how I received the hedgehog, Aglaya Ivanovna,--or, I should say, how I regarded your sending him to me? In that case, I may tell you--in a word--that I--in fact--" He paused, breathless. "Come--you haven't told us much!" said Aglaya, after waiting some five seconds. "Very well, I am ready to drop the hedgehog, if you like; but I am anxious to be able to clear up this accumulation of misunderstandings. Allow me to ask you, prince,--I wish to hear from you, personally--are you making me an offer, or not?" "Gracious heavens!" exclaimed Lizabetha Prokofievna. The prince started. The general stiffened in his chair; the sisters frowned. "Don't deceive me now, prince--tell the truth. All these people persecute me with astounding questions--about you. Is there any ground for all these questions, or not? Come!" "I have not asked you to marry me yet, Aglaya Ivanovna," said the prince, becoming suddenly animated; "but you know yourself how much I love you and trust you." "No--I asked you this--answer this! Do you intend to ask for my band, or not?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 321 "Yes--I do ask for it!" said the prince, more dead than alive now. There was a general stir in the room. "No--no--my dear girl," began the general. "You cannot proceed like this, Aglaya, if that's how the matter stands. It's impossible. Prince, forgive it, my dear fellow, but--Lizabetha Prokofievna!"--he appealed to his spouse for help--"you must really--" "Not I--not I! I retire from all responsibility," said Lizabetha Prokofievna, with a wave of the hand. "Allow me to speak, please, mamma," said Aglaya. "I think I ought to have something to say in the matter. An important moment of my destiny is about to be decided"--(this is how Aglaya expressed herself)--"and I wish to find out how the matter stands, for my own sake, though I am glad you are all here. Allow me to ask you, prince, since you cherish those intentions, how you consider that you will provide for my happiness?" "I--I don't quite know how to answer your question, Aglaya Ivanovna. What is there to say to such a question? And--and must I answer?" "I think you are rather overwhelmed and out of breath. Have a little rest, and try to recover yourself. Take a glass of water, or--but they'll give you some tea directly." "I love you, Aglaya Ivanovna,--I love you very much. I love only you--and--please don't jest about it, for I do love you very much." "Well, this matter is important. We are not children--we must look into it thoroughly. Now then, kindly tell me--what does your fortune consist of?" "No--Aglaya--come, enough of this, you mustn't behave like this," said her father, in dismay. "It's disgraceful," said Lizabetha Prokofievna in a loud whisper. "She's mad--quite!" said Alexandra. "Fortune--money--do you mean?" asked the prince in some surprise. "Just so." "I have now--let's see--I have a hundred and thirty-five thousand roubles," said the prince, blushing violently. "Is that all, really?" said Aglaya, candidly, without the slightest show of confusion. "However, it's not so bad, especially if managed with economy. Do you intend to serve?" "I--I intended to try for a certificate as private tutor." "Very good. That would increase our income nicely. Have you any intention of being a Kammer-junker?" "A Kammer-junker? I had not thought of it, but--" But here the two sisters could restrain themselves no longer, and both of them burst into irrepressible laughter. Adelaida had long since detected in Aglaya's features the gathering signs of an approaching storm of laughter, which she restrained with amazing self-control. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 322 Aglaya looked menacingly at her laughing sisters, but could not contain herself any longer, and the next minute she too had burst into an irrepressible, and almost hysterical, fit of mirth. At length she jumped up, and ran out of the room. "I knew it was all a joke!" cried Adelaida. "I felt it ever since--since the hedgehog." "No, no! I cannot allow this,--this is a little too much," cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, exploding with rage, and she rose from her seat and followed Aglaya out of the room as quickly as she could. The two sisters hurriedly went after her. The prince and the general were the only two persons left in the room. "It's--it's really--now could you have imagined anything like it, Lef Nicolaievitch?" cried the general. He was evidently so much agitated that he hardly knew what he wished to say. "Seriously now, seriously I mean--" "I only see that Aglaya Ivanovna is laughing at me," said the poor prince, sadly. "Wait a bit, my boy, I'll just go--you stay here, you know. But do just explain, if you can, Lef Nicolaievitch, how in the world has all this come about? And what does it all mean? You must understand, my dear fellow; I am a father, you see, and I ought to be allowed to understand the matter--do explain, I beg you!" "I love Aglaya Ivanovna--she knows it,--and I think she must have long known it." The general shrugged his shoulders. "Strange--it's strange," he said, "and you love her very much?" "Yes, very much." "Well--it's all most strange to me. That is--my dear fellow, it is such a surprise--such a blow--that... You see, it is not your financial position (though I should not object if you were a bit richer)--I am thinking of my daughter's happiness, of course, and the thing is--are you able to give her the happiness she deserves? And then--is all this a joke on her part, or is she in earnest? I don't mean on your side, but on hers." At this moment Alexandra's voice was heard outside the door, calling out "Papa!" "Wait for me here, my boy--will you? Just wait and think it all over, and I'll come back directly," he said hurriedly, and made off with what looked like the rapidity of alarm in response to Alexandra's call. He found the mother and daughter locked in one another's arms, mingling their tears. These were the tears of joy and peace and reconciliation. Aglaya was kissing her mother's lips and cheeks and hands; they were hugging each other in the most ardent way. "There, look at her now--Ivan Fedorovitch! Here she is--all of her! This is our REAL Aglaya at last!" said Lizabetha Prokofievna. Aglaya raised her happy, tearful face from her mother's breast, glanced at her father, and burst out laughing. She sprang at him and hugged him too, and kissed him over and over again. She then rushed back to her mother and hid her face in the maternal bosom, and there indulged in more tears. Her mother covered her with a corner of her shawl. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 323 "Oh, you cruel little girl! How will you treat us all next, I wonder?" she said, but she spoke with a ring of joy in her voice, and as though she breathed at last without the oppression which she had felt so long. "Cruel?" sobbed Aglaya. "Yes, I AM cruel, and worthless, and spoiled--tell father so,--oh, here he is--I forgot Father, listen!" She laughed through her tears. "My darling, my little idol," cried the general, kissing and fondling her hands (Aglaya did not draw them away); "so you love this young man, do you?" "No, no, no, can't BEAR him, I can't BEAR your young man!" cried Aglaya, raising her head. "And if you dare say that ONCE more, papa--I'm serious, you know, I'm,--do you hear me--I'm serious!" She certainly did seem to be serious enough. She had flushed up all over and her eyes were blazing. The general felt troubled and remained silent, while Lizabetha Prokofievna telegraphed to him from behind Aglaya to ask no questions. "If that's the case, darling--then, of course, you shall do exactly as you like. He is waiting alone downstairs. Hadn't I better hint to him gently that he can go?" The general telegraphed to Lizabetha Prokofievna in his turn. "No, no, you needn't do anything of the sort; you mustn't hint gently at all. I'll go down myself directly. I wish to apologize to this young man, because I hurt his feelings." "Yes, SERIOUSLY," said the general, gravely. "Well, you'd better stay here, all of you, for a little, and I'll go down to him alone to begin with. I'll just go in and then you can follow me almost at once. That's the best way." She had almost reached the door when she turned round again. "I shall laugh--I know I shall; I shall die of laughing," she said, lugubriously. However, she turned and ran down to the prince as fast as her feet could carry her. "Well, what does it all mean? What do you make of it?" asked the general of his spouse, hurriedly. "I hardly dare say," said Lizabetha, as hurriedly, "but I think it's as plain as anything can be." "I think so too, as clear as day; she loves him." "Loves him? She is head over ears in love, that's what she is," put in Alexandra. "Well, God bless her, God bless her, if such is her destiny," said Lizabetha, crossing herself devoutly. "H'm destiny it is," said the general, "and there's no getting out of destiny." With these words they all moved off towards the drawing-room, where another surprise awaited them. Aglaya had not only not laughed, as she had feared, but had gone to the prince rather timidly, and said to him: "Forgive a silly, horrid, spoilt girl"--(she took his hand here)-- "and be quite assured that we all of us esteem you beyond all words. And if I dared to turn your beautiful, admirable simplicity to ridicule, forgive me as by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 324 you would a little child its mischief. Forgive me all my absurdity of just now, which, of course, meant nothing, and could not have the slightest consequence." She spoke these words with great emphasis. Her father, mother, and sisters came into the room and were much struck with the last words, which they just caught as they entered--"absurdity which of course meant nothing"--and still more so with the emphasis with which Aglaya had spoken. They exchanged glances questioningly, but the prince did not seem to have understood the meaning of Aglaya's words; he was in the highest heaven of delight. "Why do you speak so?" he murmured. "Why do you ask my forgiveness?" He wished to add that he was unworthy of being asked for forgiveness by her, but paused. Perhaps he did understand Aglaya's sentence about "absurdity which meant nothing," and like the strange fellow that he was, rejoiced in the words. Undoubtedly the fact that he might now come and see Aglaya as much as he pleased again was quite enough to make him perfectly happy; that he might come and speak to her, and see her, and sit by her, and walk with her--who knows, but that all this was quite enough to satisfy him for the whole of his life, and that he would desire no more to the end of time? (Lizabetha Prokofievna felt that this might be the case, and she didn't like it; though very probably she could not have put the idea into words.) It would be difficult to describe the animation and high spirits which distinguished the prince for the rest of the evening. He was so happy that "it made one feel happy to look at him," as Aglaya's sisters expressed it afterwards. He talked, and told stories just as he had done once before, and never since, namely on the very first morning of his acquaintance with the Epanchins, six months ago. Since his return to Petersburg from Moscow, he had been remarkably silent, and had told Prince S. on one occasion, before everyone, that he did not think himself justified in degrading any thought by his unworthy words. But this evening he did nearly all the talking himself, and told stories by the dozen, while he answered all questions put to him clearly, gladly, and with any amount of detail. There was nothing, however, of love-making in his talk. His ideas were all of the most serious kind; some were even mystical and profound. He aired his own views on various matters, some of his most private opinions and observations, many of which would have seemed rather funny, so his hearers agreed afterwards, had they not been so well expressed. The general liked serious subjects of conversation; but both he and Lizabetha Prokofievna felt that they were having a little too much of a good thing tonight, and as the evening advanced, they both grew more or less melancholy; but towards night, the prince fell to telling funny stories, and was always the first to burst out laughing himself, which he invariably did so joyously and simply that the rest laughed just as much at him as at his stories. As for Aglaya, she hardly said a word all the evening; but she listened with all her ears to Lef Nicolaievitch's talk, and scarcely took her eyes off him. "She looked at him, and stared and stared, and hung on every word he said," said Lizabetha afterwards, to her by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 325 husband, "and yet, tell her that she loves him, and she is furious!" "What's to be done? It's fate," said the general, shrugging his shoulders, and, for a long while after, he continued to repeat: "It's fate, it's fate!" We may add that to a business man like General Epanchin the present position of affairs was most unsatisfactory. He hated the uncertainty in which they had been, perforce, left. However, he decided to say no more about it, and merely to look on, and take his time and tune from Lizabetha Prokofievna. The happy state in which the family had spent the evening, as just recorded, was not of very long duration. Next day Aglaya quarrelled with the prince again, and so she continued to behave for the next few days. For whole hours at a time she ridiculed and chaffed the wretched man, and made him almost a laughing- stock. It is true that they used to sit in the little summer-house together for an hour or two at a time, very often, but it was observed that on these occasions the prince would read the paper, or some book, aloud to Aglaya. "Do you know," Aglaya said to him once, interrupting the reading, "I've remarked that you are dreadfully badly educated. You never know anything thoroughly, if one asks you; neither anyone's name, nor dates, nor about treaties and so on. It's a great pity, you know!" "I told you I had not had much of an education," replied the prince. "How am I to respect you, if that's the case? Read on now. No-- don't! Stop reading!" And once more, that same evening, Aglaya mystified them all. Prince S. had returned, and Aglaya was particularly amiable to him, and asked a great deal after Evgenie Pavlovitch. (Muishkin had not come in as yet.) Suddenly Prince S. hinted something about "a new and approaching change in the family." He was led to this remark by a communication inadvertently made to him by Lizabetha Prokofievna, that Adelaida's marriage must be postponed a little longer, in order that the two weddings might come off together. It is impossible to describe Aglaya's irritation. She flared up, and said some indignant words about "all these silly insinuations." She added that "she had no intentions as yet of replacing anybody's mistress." These words painfully impressed the whole party; but especially her parents. Lizabetha Prokofievna summoned a secret council of two, and insisted upon the general's demanding from the prince a full explanation of his relations with Nastasia Philipovna. The general argued that it was only a whim of Aglaya's; and that, had not Prince S. unfortunately made that remark, which had confused the child and made her blush, she never would have said what she did; and that he was sure Aglaya knew well that anything she might have heard of the prince and Nastasia Philipovna was merely the fabrication of malicious tongues, and that the woman was going to marry Rogojin. He insisted that the prince had nothing whatever to do with Nastasia Philipovna, so far as any liaison was concerned; and, if the truth were to be told about it, he added, never had had. Meanwhile nothing put the prince out, and he continued to be in the seventh heaven of bliss. Of course he could not fail to observe some impatience and ill-temper in Aglaya now and then; but he believed in something else, and nothing could now shake his conviction. Besides, Aglaya's frowns never lasted long; they disappeared of themselves. Perhaps he was too easy in his mind. So thought Hippolyte, at all events, who met him in the park one day. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 326 "Didn't I tell you the truth now, when I said you were in love?" he said, coming up to Muishkin of his own accord, and stopping him. The prince gave him his hand and congratulated him upon "looking so well." Hippolyte himself seemed to be hopeful about his state of health, as is often the case with consumptives. He had approached the prince with the intention of talking sarcastically about his happy expression of face, but very soon forgot his intention and began to talk about himself. He began complaining about everything, disconnectedly and endlessly, as was his wont. "You wouldn't believe," he concluded, "how irritating they all are there. They are such wretchedly small, vain, egotistical, COMMONPLACE people! Would you believe it, they invited me there under the express condition that I should die quickly, and they are all as wild as possible with me for not having died yet, and for being, on the contrary, a good deal better! Isn't it a comedy? I don't mind betting that you don't believe me!" The prince said nothing. "I sometimes think of coming over to you again," said Hippolyte, carelessly. "So you DON'T think them capable of inviting a man on the condition that he is to look sharp and die?" "I certainly thought they invited you with quite other views." "Ho, ho! you are not nearly so simple as they try to make you out! This is not the time for it, or I would tell you a thing or two about that beauty, Gania, and his hopes. You are being undermined, pitilessly undermined, and--and it is really melancholy to see you so calm about it. But alas! it's your nature--you can't help it!" "My word! what a thing to be melancholy about! Why, do you think I should be any happier if I were to feel disturbed about the excavations you tell me of?" "It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a fool's paradise! I suppose you don't believe that you have a rival in that quarter?" "Your insinuations as to rivalry are rather cynical, Hippolyte. I'm sorry to say I have no right to answer you! As for Gania, I put it to you, CAN any man have a happy mind after passing through what he has had to suffer? I think that is the best way to look at it. He will change yet, he has lots of time before him, and life is rich; besides--besides..." the prince hesitated. "As to being undermined, I don't know what in the world you are driving at, Hippolyte. I think we had better drop the subject!" "Very well, we'll drop it for a while. You can't look at anything but in your exalted, generous way. You must put out your finger and touch a thing before you'll believe it, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I suppose you despise me dreadfully, prince, eh? What do you think?" "Why? Because you have suffered more than we have?" "No; because I am unworthy of my sufferings, if you like!" "Whoever CAN suffer is worthy to suffer, I should think. Aglaya Ivanovna wished to see you, after she had read your confession, but--" "She postponed the pleasure--I see--I quite understand!" said Hippolyte, hurriedly, as though he wished to by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 327 banish the subject. "I hear--they tell me--that you read her all that nonsense aloud? Stupid @ bosh it was--written in delirium. And I can't understand how anyone can be so I won't say CRUEL, because the word would be humiliating to myself, but we'll say childishly vain and revengeful, as to REPROACH me with this confession, and use it as a weapon against me. Don't be afraid, I'm not referring to yourself." "Oh, but I'm sorry you repudiate the confession, Hippolyte--it is sincere; and, do you know, even the absurd parts of it--and these are many" (here Hippolyte frowned savagely) "are, as it were, redeemed by suffering--for it must have cost you something to admit what you there say--great torture, perhaps, for all I know. Your motive must have been a very noble one all through. Whatever may have appeared to the contrary, I give you my word, I see this more plainly every day. I do not judge you; I merely say this to have it off my mind, and I am only sorry that I did not say it all THEN--" Hippolyte flushed hotly. He had thought at first that the prince was "humbugging" him; but on looking at his face he saw that he was absolutely serious, and had no thought of any deception. Hippolyte beamed with gratification. "And yet I must die," he said, and almost added: "a man like me @ "And imagine how that Gania annoys me! He has developed the idea --or pretends to believe--that in all probability three or four others who heard my confession will die before I do. There's an idea for you--and all this by way of CONSOLING me! Ha! ha! ha! In the first place they haven't died yet; and in the second, if they DID die--all of them--what would be the satisfaction to me in that? He judges me by himself. But he goes further, he actually pitches into me because, as he declares, 'any decent fellow' would die quietly, and that 'all this' is mere egotism on my part. He doesn't see what refinement of egotism it is on his own part--and at the same time, what ox-like coarseness! Have you ever read of the death of one Stepan Gleboff, in the eighteenth century? I read of it yesterday by chance." "Who was he?" He was impaled on a stake in the time of Peter." "I know, I know! He lay there fifteen hours in the hard frost, and died with the most extraordinary fortitude--I know--what of him?" "Only that God gives that sort of dying to some, and not to others. Perhaps you think, though, that I could not die like Gleboff?" "Not at all!" said the prince, blushing. "I was only going to say that you--not that you could not be like Gleboff--but that you would have been more like @ "I guess what you mean--I should be an Osterman, not a Gleboff-- eh? Is that what you meant?" "What Osterman?" asked the prince in some surprise. "Why, Osterman--the diplomatist. Peter's Osterman," muttered Hippolyte, confused. There was a moment's pause of mutual confusion. Oh, no, no!" said the prince at last, "that was not what I was going to say--oh no! I don't think you would ever have been like Osterman." Hippolyte frowned gloomily. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 328 "I'll tell you why I draw the conclusion," explained the prince, evidently desirous of clearing up the matter a little. "Because, though I often think over the men of those times, I cannot for the life of me imagine them to be like ourselves. It really appears to me that they were of another race altogether than ourselves of today. At that time people seemed to stick so to one idea; now, they are more nervous, more sensitive, more enlightened--people of two or three ideas at once--as it were. The man of today is a broader man, so to speak--and I declare I believe that is what prevents him from being so self-contained and independent a being as his brother of those earlier days. Of course my remark was only made under this impression, and not in the least @ "I quite understand. You are trying to comfort me for the naiveness with which you disagreed with me--eh? Ha! ha! ha! You are a regular child, prince! However, I cannot help seeing that you always treat me like--like a fragile china cup. Never mind, never mind, I'm not a bit angry! At all events we have had a very funny talk. Do you know, all things considered, I should like to be something better than Osterman! I wouldn't take the trouble to rise from the dead to be an Osterman. However, I see I must make arrangements to die soon, or I myself--. Well--leave me now! Au revoir. Look here--before you go, just give me your opinion: how do you think I ought to die, now? I mean--the best, the most virtuous way? Tell me!" "You should pass us by and forgive us our happiness," said the prince in a low voice. "Ha! ha! ha! I thought so. I thought I should hear something like that. Well, you are--you really are--oh dear me! Eloquence, eloquence! Good-bye!" VI. As to the evening party at the Epanchins' at which Princess Bielokonski was to be present, Varia had reported with accuracy; though she had perhaps expressed herself too strongly. The thing was decided in a hurry and with a certain amount of quite unnecessary excitement, doubtless because "nothing could be done in this house like anywhere else." The impatience of Lizabetha Prokofievna "to get things settled" explained a good deal, as well as the anxiety of both parents for the happiness of their beloved daughter. Besides, Princess Bielokonski was going away soon, and they hoped that she would take an interest in the prince. They were anxious that he should enter society under the auspices of this lady, whose patronage was the best of recommendations for any young man. Even if there seems something strange about the match, the general and his wife said to each other, the "world" will accept Aglaya's fiance without any question if he is under the patronage of the princess. In any case, the prince would have to be "shown" sooner or later; that is, introduced into society, of which he had, so far, not the least idea. Moreover, it was only a question of a small gathering of a few intimate friends. Besides Princess Bielokonski, only one other lady was expected, the wife of a high dignitary. Evgenie Pavlovitch, who was to escort the princess, was the only young man. Muishkin was told of the princess's visit three days beforehand, but nothing was said to him about the party until the night before it was to take place. He could not help observing the excited and agitated condition of all members of the family, and from certain hints dropped in conversation he gathered that they were all anxious as to the impression he should make upon the princess. But the Epanchins, one and all, believed that Muishkin, in his simplicity of mind, was quite incapable of realizing that they could be feeling any anxiety on his account, and for this reason they all looked at him with dread and uneasiness. In point of fact, he did attach marvellously little importance to the approaching event. He was occupied with by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 329 altogether different thoughts. Aglaya was growing hourly more capricious and gloomy, and this distressed him. When they told him that Evgenie Pavlovitch was expected, he evinced great delight, and said that he had long wished to see him--and somehow these words did not please anyone. Aglaya left the room in a fit of irritation, and it was not until late in the evening, past eleven, when the prince was taking his departure, that she said a word or two to him, privately, as she accompanied him as far as the front door. "I should like you," she said, "not to come here tomorrow until evening, when the guests are all assembled. You know there are to be guests, don't you?" She spoke impatiently and with severity; this was the first allusion she had made to the party of tomorrow. She hated the idea of it, everyone saw that; and she would probably have liked to quarrel about it with her parents, but pride and modesty prevented her from broaching the subject. The prince jumped to the conclusion that Aglaya, too, was nervous about him, and the impression he would make, and that she did not like to admit her anxiety; and this thought alarmed him. "Yes, I am invited," he replied. She was evidently in difficulties as to how best to go on. "May I speak of something serious to you, for once in my life?" she asked, angrily. She was irritated at she knew not what, and could not restrain her wrath. "Of course you may; I am very glad to listen," replied Muishkin. Aglaya was silent a moment and then began again with evident dislike of her subject: "I do not wish to quarrel with them about this; in some things they won't be reasonable. I always did feel a loathing for the laws which seem to guide mamma's conduct at times. I don't speak of father, for he cannot be expected to be anything but what he is. Mother is a noble-minded woman, I know; you try to suggest anything mean to her, and you'll see! But she is such a slave to these miserable creatures! I don't mean old Bielokonski alone. She is a contemptible old thing, but she is able to twist people round her little finger, and I admire that in her, at all events! How mean it all is, and how foolish! We were always middle-class, thoroughly middle-class, people. Why should we attempt to climb into the giddy heights of the fashionable world? My sisters are all for it. It's Prince S. they have to thank for poisoning their minds. Why are you so glad that Evgenie Pavlovitch is coming?" "Listen to me, Aglaya," said the prince, "I do believe you are nervous lest I shall make a fool of myself tomorrow at your party?" "Nervous about you?" Aglaya blushed. "Why should I be nervous about you? What would it matter to me if you were to make ever such a fool of yourself? How can you say such a thing? What do you mean by 'making a fool of yourself'? What a vulgar expression! I suppose you intend to talk in that sort of way tomorrow evening? Look up a few more such expressions in your dictionary; do, you'll make a grand effect! I'm sorry that you seem to be able to come into a room as gracefully as you do; where did you learn the art? Do you think you can drink a cup of tea decently, when you know everybody is looking at you, on purpose to see how you do it?" "Yes, I think I can." "Can you? I'm sorry for it then, for I should have had a good laugh at you otherwise. Do break SOMETHING by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 330 at least, in the drawing-room! Upset the Chinese vase, won't you? It's a valuable one; DO break it. Mamma values it, and she'll go out of her mind--it was a present. She'll cry before everyone, you'll see! Wave your hand about, you know, as you always do, and just smash it. Sit down near it on purpose." "On the contrary, I shall sit as far from it as I can. Thanks for the hint." "Ha, ha! Then you are afraid you WILL wave your arms about! I wouldn't mind betting that you'll talk about some lofty subject, something serious and learned. How delightful, how tactful that will be!" "I should think it would be very foolish indeed, unless it happened to come in appropriately." "Look here, once for all," cried Aglaya, boiling over, "if I hear you talking about capital punishment, or the economical condition of Russia, or about Beauty redeeming the world, or anything of that sort, I'll--well, of course I shall laugh and seem very pleased, but I warn you beforehand, don't look me in the face again! I'm serious now, mind, this time I AM REALLY serious." She certainly did say this very seriously, so much so, that she looked quite different from what she usually was, and the prince could not help noticing the fact. She did not seem to be joking in the slightest degree. "Well, you've put me into such a fright that I shall certainly make a fool of myself, and very likely break something too. I wasn't a bit alarmed before, but now I'm as nervous as can be." "Then don't speak at all. Sit still and don't talk." "Oh, I can't do that, you know! I shall say something foolish out of pure 'funk,' and break something for the same excellent reason; I know I shall. Perhaps I shall slip and fall on the slippery floor; I've done that before now, you know. I shall dream of it all night now. Why did you say anything about it?" Aglaya looked blackly at him. "Do you know what, I had better not come at all tomorrow! I'll plead sick-list and stay away," said the prince, with decision. Aglaya stamped her foot, and grew quite pale with anger. Oh, my goodness! Just listen to that! 'Better not come,' when the party is on purpose for him! Good Lord! What a delightful thing it is to have to do with such a--such a stupid as you are!" "Well, I'll come, I'll come," interrupted the prince, hastily, "and I'll give you my word of honour that I will sit the whole evening and not say a word." "I believe that's the best thing you can do. You said you'd 'plead sick-list' just now; where in the world do you get hold of such expressions? Why do you talk to me like this? Are you trying to irritate me, or what?" "Forgive me, it's a schoolboy expression. I won't do it again. I know quite well, I see it, that you are anxious on my account (now, don't be angry), and it makes me very happy to see it. You wouldn't believe how frightened I am of misbehaving somehow, and how glad I am of your instructions. But all this panic is simply nonsense, you know, Aglaya! I give you my word it is; I am so pleased that you are such a child, such a dear good child. How CHARMING you can be if you like, Aglaya." Aglaya wanted to be angry, of course, but suddenly some quite unexpected feeling seized upon her heart, all in a moment. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 331 "And you won't reproach me for all these rude words of mine--some day--afterwards?" she asked, of a sudden. "What an idea! Of course not. And what are you blushing for again? And there comes that frown once more! You've taken to looking too gloomy sometimes, Aglaya, much more than you used to. I know why it is." "Be quiet, do be quiet!" "No, no, I had much better speak out. I have long wished to say it, and HAVE said it, but that's not enough, for you didn't believe me. Between us two there stands a being who--" "Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet, be quiet!" Aglaya struck in, suddenly, seizing his hand in hers, and gazing at him almost in terror. At this moment she was called by someone. She broke loose from him with an air of relief and ran away. The prince was in a fever all night. It was strange, but he had suffered from fever for several nights in succession. On this particular night, while in semi-delirium, he had an idea: what if on the morrow he were to have a fit before everybody? The thought seemed to freeze his blood within him. All night he fancied himself in some extraordinary society of strange persons. The worst of it was that he was talking nonsense; he knew that he ought not to speak at all, and yet he talked the whole time; he seemed to be trying to persuade them all to something. Evgenie and Hippolyte were among the guests, and appeared to be great friends. He awoke towards nine o'clock with a headache, full of confused ideas and strange impressions. For some reason or other he felt most anxious to see Rogojin, to see and talk to him, but what he wished to say he could not tell. Next, he determined to go and see Hippolyte. His mind was in a confused state, so much so that the incidents of the morning seemed to be imperfectly realized, though acutely felt. One of these incidents was a visit from Lebedeff. Lebedeff came rather early--before ten--but he was tipsy already. Though the prince was not in an observant condition, yet he could not avoid seeing that for at least three days--ever since General Ivolgin had left the house Lebedeff had been behaving very badly. He looked untidy and dirty at all times of the day, and it was said that he had begun to rage about in his own house, and that his temper was very bad. As soon as he arrived this morning, he began to hold forth, beating his breast and apparently blaming himself for something. "I've--I've had a reward for my meanness--I've had a slap in the face," he concluded, tragically. "A slap in the face? From whom? And so early in the morning?" "Early?" said Lebedeff, sarcastically. "Time counts for nothing, even in physical chastisement; but my slap in the face was not physical, it was moral." He suddenly took a seat, very unceremoniously, and began his story. It was very disconnected; the prince frowned, and wished he could get away; but suddenly a few words struck him. He sat stiff with wonder--Lebedeff said some extraordinary things. In the first place he began about some letter; the name of Aglaya Ivanovna came in. Then suddenly he broke off and began to accuse the prince of something; he was apparently offended with him. At first he declared that the prince had trusted him with his confidences as to "a certain person" (Nastasia Philipovna), but that of late his friendship had been thrust back into his bosom, and his innocent question as to "approaching family changes" had been curtly put aside, which Lebedeff declared, with tipsy tears, he could not bear; especially as he knew so much already both from Rogojin and Nastasia Philipovna and her friend, and from Varvara Ardalionovna, and even from Aglaya Ivanovna, through his daughter Vera. "And who told Lizabetha by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 332 Prokofievna something in secret, by letter? Who told her all about the movements of a certain person called Nastasia Philipovna? Who was the anonymous person, eh? Tell me!" "Surely not you?" cried the prince. "Just so," said Lebedeff, with dignity; "and only this very morning I have sent up a letter to the noble lady, stating that I have a matter of great importance to communicate. She received the letter; I know she got it; and she received ME, too." "Have you just seen Lizabetha Prokofievna?" asked the prince, scarcely believing his ears. "Yes, I saw her, and got the said slap in the face as mentioned. She chucked the letter back to me unopened, and kicked me out of the house, morally, not physically, although not far off it." "What letter do you mean she returned unopened?" "What! didn't I tell you? Ha, ha, ha! I thought I had. Why, I received a letter, you know, to be handed over--"From whom? To whom?" But it was difficult, if not impossible, to extract anything from Lebedeff. All the prince could gather was, that the letter had been received very early, and had a request written on the outside that it might be sent on to the address given. "Just as before, sir, just as before! To a certain person, and from a certain hand. The individual's name who wrote the letter is to be represented by the letter A.--" "What? Impossible! To Nastasia Philipovna? Nonsense!" cried the prince. "It was, I assure you, and if not to her then to Rogojin, which is the same thing. Mr. Hippolyte has had letters, too, and all from the individual whose name begins with an A.," smirked Lebedeff, with a hideous grin. As he kept jumping from subject to subject, and forgetting what he had begun to talk about, the prince said nothing, but waited, to give him time. It was all very vague. Who had taken the letters, if letters there were? Probably Vera--and how could Lebedeff have got them? In all probability, he had managed to steal the present letter from Vera, and had himself gone over to Lizabetha Prokofievna with some idea in his head. So the prince concluded at last. "You are mad!" he cried, indignantly. "Not quite, esteemed prince," replied Lebedeff, with some acerbity. "I confess I thought of doing you the service of handing the letter over to yourself, but I decided that it would pay me better to deliver it up to the noble lady aforesaid, as I had informed her of everything hitherto by anonymous letters; so when I sent her up a note from myself, with the letter, you know, in order to fix a meeting for eight o'clock this morning, I signed it 'your secret correspondent.' They let me in at once-- very quickly--by the back door, and the noble lady received me." "Well? Go on." "Oh, well, when I saw her she almost punched my head, as I say; in fact so nearly that one might almost say she did punch my head. She threw the letter in my face; she seemed to reflect first, as if she would have liked to keep it, but thought better of it and threw it in my face instead. 'If anybody can have been such a fool as to by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 333 trust a man like you to deliver the letter,' says she,' take it and deliver it! 'Hey! she was grandly indignant. A fierce, fiery lady that, sir!" "Where's the letter now?" "Oh, I've still got it, here!" And he handed the prince the very letter from Aglaya to Gania, which the latter showed with so much triumph to his Sister at a later hour. "This letter cannot be allowed to remain in your hands." "It's for you--for you! I've brought it you on purpose!" cried Lebedeff, excitedly. "Why, I'm yours again now, heart and hand, your slave; there was but a momentary pause in the flow of my love and esteem for you. Mea culpa, mea culpa! as the Pope of Rome says. "This letter should be sent on at once," said the prince, disturbed. "I'll hand it over myself." "Wouldn't it be better, esteemed prince, wouldn't it be better-- to--don't you know--" Lebedeff made a strange and very expressive grimace; he twisted about in his chair, and did something, apparently symbolical, with his hands. "What do you mean?" said the prince. "Why, open it, for the time being, don't you know?" he said, most confidentially and mysteriously. The prince jumped up so furiously that Lebedeff ran towards the door; having gained which strategic position, however, he stopped and looked back to see if he might hope for pardon. "Oh, Lebedeff, Lebedeff! Can a man really sink to such depths of meanness?" said the prince, sadly. Lebedeff's face brightened. "Oh, I'm a mean wretch--a mean wretch!" he said, approaching the prince once more, and beating his breast, with tears in his eyes. "It's abominable dishonesty, you know!" "Dishonesty--it is, it is! That's the very word!" "What in the world induces you to act so? You are nothing but a spy. Why did you write anonymously to worry so noble and generous a lady? Why should not Aglaya Ivanovna write a note to whomever she pleases? What did you mean to complain of today? What did you expect to get by it? What made you go at all?" "Pure amiable curiosity,--I assure you--desire to do a service. That's all. Now I'm entirely yours again, your slave; hang me if you like!" "Did you go before Lizabetha Prokofievna in your present condition?" inquired the prince. "No--oh no, fresher--more the correct card. I only became this like after the humiliation I suffered there, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 334 "Well--that'll do; now leave me." This injunction had to be repeated several times before the man could be persuaded to move. Even then he turned back at the door, came as far as the middle of the room, and there went through his mysterious motions designed to convey the suggestion that the prince should open the letter. He did not dare put his suggestion into words again. After this performance, he smiled sweetly and left the room on tiptoe. All this had been very painful to listen to. One fact stood out certain and clear, and that was that poor Aglaya must be in a state of great distress and indecision and mental torment ("from jealousy," the prince whispered to himself). Undoubtedly in this inexperienced, but hot and proud little head, there were all sorts of plans forming, wild and impossible plans, maybe; and the idea of this so frightened the prince that he could not make up his mind what to do. Something must be done, that was clear. He looked at the address on the letter once more. Oh, he was not in the least degree alarmed about Aglaya writing such a letter; he could trust her. What he did not like about it was that he could not trust Gania. However, he made up his mind that he would himself take the note and deliver it. Indeed, he went so far as to leave the house and walk up the road, but changed his mind when he had nearly reached Ptitsin's door. However, he there luckily met Colia, and commissioned him to deliver the letter to his brother as if direct from Aglaya. Colia asked no questions but simply delivered it, and Gania consequently had no suspicion that it had passed through so many hands. Arrived home again, the prince sent for Vera Lebedeff and told her as much as was necessary, in order to relieve her mind, for she had been in a dreadful state of anxiety since she had missed the letter. She heard with horror that her father had taken it. Muishkin learned from her that she had on several occasions performed secret missions both for Aglaya and for Rogojin, without, however, having had the slightest idea that in so doing she might injure the prince in any way. The latter, with one thing and another, was now so disturbed and confused, that when, a couple of hours or so later, a message came from Colia that the general was ill, he could hardly take the news in. However, when he did master the fact, it acted upon him as a tonic by completely distracting his attention. He went at once to Nina Alexandrovna's, whither the general had been carried, and stayed there until the evening. He could do no good, but there are people whom to have near one is a blessing at such times. Colia was in an almost hysterical state; he cried continuously, but was running about all day, all the same; fetching doctors, of whom he collected three; going to the chemist's, and so on. The general was brought round to some extent, but the doctors declared that he could not be said to be out of danger. Varia and Nina Alexandrovna never left the sick man's bedside; Gania was excited and distressed, but would not go upstairs, and seemed afraid to look at the patient. He wrung his hands when the prince spoke to him, and said that "such a misfortune at such a moment" was terrible. The prince thought he knew what Gania meant by "such a moment." Hippolyte was not in the house. Lebedeff turned up late in the afternoon; he had been asleep ever since his interview with the prince in the morning. He was quite sober now, and cried with real sincerity over the sick general--mourning for him as though he were his own brother. He blamed himself aloud, but did not explain why. He repeated over and over again to Nina Alexandrovna that he alone was to blame--no one else--but that he had acted out of "pure amiable curiosity," and that "the deceased," as he insisted upon calling the still living general, had been the greatest of geniuses. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 335 He laid much stress on the genius of the sufferer, as if this idea must be one of immense solace in the present crisis. Nina Alexandrovna--seeing his sincerity of feeling--said at last, and without the faintest suspicion of reproach in her voice: "Come, come--don't cry! God will forgive you!" Lebedeff was so impressed by these words, and the tone in which they were spoken, that he could not leave Nina Alexandrovna all the evening--in fact, for several days. Till the general's death, indeed, he spent almost all his time at his side. Twice during the day a messenger came to Nina Alexandrovna from the Epanchins to inquire after the invalid. When--late in the evening--the prince made his appearance in Lizabetha Prokofievna's drawing-room, he found it full of guests. Mrs. Epanchin questioned him very fully about the general as soon as he appeared; and when old Princess Bielokonski wished to know "who this general was, and who was Nina Alexandrovna," she proceeded to explain in a manner which pleased the prince very much. He himself, when relating the circumstances of the general's illness to Lizabetha Prokofievna, "spoke beautifully," as Aglaya's sisters declared afterwards--"modestly, quietly, without gestures or too many words, and with great dignity." He had entered the room with propriety and grace, and he was perfectly dressed; he not only did not "fall down on the slippery floor," as he had expressed it, but evidently made a very favourable impression upon the assembled guests. As for his own impression on entering the room and taking his seat, he instantly remarked that the company was not in the least such as Aglaya's words had led him to fear, and as he had dreamed of--in nightmare form--all night. This was the first time in his life that he had seen a little corner of what was generally known by the terrible name of "society." He had long thirsted, for reasons of his own, to penetrate the mysteries of the magic circle, and, therefore, this assemblage was of the greatest possible interest to him. His first impression was one of fascination. Somehow or other he felt that all these people must have been born on purpose to be together! It seemed to him that the Epanchins were not having a party at all; that these people must have been here always, and that he himself was one of them--returned among them after a long absence, but one of them, naturally and indisputably. It never struck him that all this refined simplicity and nobility and wit and personal dignity might possibly be no more than an exquisite artistic polish. The majority of the guests--who were somewhat empty-headed, after all, in spite of their aristocratic bearing--never guessed, in their self-satisfied composure, that much of their superiority was mere veneer, which indeed they had adopted unconsciously and by inheritance. The prince would never so much as suspect such a thing in the delight of his first impression. He saw, for instance, that one important dignitary, old enough to be his grandfather, broke off his own conversation in order to listen to HIM--a young and inexperienced man; and not only listened, but seemed to attach value to his opinion, and was kind and amiable, and yet they were strangers and had never seen each other before. Perhaps what most appealed to the prince's impressionability was the refinement of the old man's courtesy towards him. Perhaps the soil of his susceptible nature was really predisposed to receive a pleasant impression. Meanwhile all these people-though friends of the family and of each other to a certain extent--were very far from being such intimate friends of the family and of each other as the prince concluded. There were some by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 336 present who never would think of considering the Epanchins their equals. There were even some who hated one another cordially. For instance, old Princess Bielokonski had all her life despised the wife of the "dignitary," while the latter was very far from loving Lizabetha Prokofievna. The dignitary himself had been General Epanchin's protector from his youth up; and the general considered him so majestic a personage that he would have felt a hearty contempt for himself if he had even for one moment allowed himself to pose as the great man's equal, or to think of him--in his fear and reverence-as anything less than an Olympic God! There were others present who had not met for years, and who had no feeling whatever for each other, unless it were dislike; and yet they met tonight as though they had seen each other but yesterday in some friendly and intimate assembly of kindred spirits. It was not a large party, however. Besides Princess Bielokonski and the old dignitary (who was really a great man) and his wife, there was an old military general--a count or baron with a German name, a man reputed to possess great knowledge and administrative ability. He was one of those Olympian administrators who know everything except Russia, pronounce a word of extraordinary wisdom, admired by all, about once in five years, and, after being an eternity in the service, generally die full of honour and riches, though they have never done anything great, and have even been hostile to all greatness. This general was Ivan Fedorovitch's immediate superior in the service; and it pleased the latter to look upon him also as a patron. On the other hand, the great man did not at all consider himself Epanchin's patron. He was always very cool to him, while taking advantage of his ready services, and would instantly have put another in his place if there had been the slightest reason for the change. Another guest was an elderly, important-looking gentleman, a distant relative of Lizabetha Prokofievna's. This gentleman was rich, held a good position, was a great talker, and had the reputation of being "one of the dissatisfied," though not belonging to the dangerous sections of that class. He had the manners, to some extent, of the English aristocracy, and some of their tastes (especially in the matter of under-done roast beef, harness, men-servants, etc.). He was a great friend of the dignitary's, and Lizabetha Prokofievna, for some reason or other, had got hold of the idea that this worthy intended at no distant date to offer the advantages of his hand and heart to Alexandra. Besides the elevated and more solid individuals enumerated, there were present a few younger though not less elegant guests. Besides Prince S. and Evgenie Pavlovitch, we must name the eminent and fascinating Prince N.--once the vanquisher of female hearts all over Europe. This gentleman was no longer in the first bloom of youth--he was forty-five, but still very handsome. He was well off, and lived, as a rule, abroad, and was noted as a good teller of stories. Then came a few guests belonging to a lower stratum of society--people who, like the Epanchins themselves, moved only occasionally in this exalted sphere. The Epanchins liked to draft among their more elevated guests a few picked representatives of this lower stratum, and Lizabetha Prokofievna received much praise for this practice, which proved, her friends said, that she was a woman of tact. The Epanchins prided themselves upon the good opinion people held of them. One of the representatives of the middle-class present today was a colonel of engineers, a very serious man and a great friend of Prince S., who had introduced him to the Epanchins. He was extremely silent in society, and displayed on the forefinger of his right hand a large ring, probably bestowed upon him for services of some sort. There was also a poet, German by name, but a Russian poet; very presentable, and even handsome-the sort of man one could bring into society with impunity. This gentleman belonged to a German family of decidedly bourgeois origin, but he had a knack of acquiring the patronage of "big-wigs," and of retaining their favour. He had translated some great German poem into Russian verse, and claimed to have been a friend of a famous Russian poet, since dead. (It is strange how great a multitude of literary people there are who have had the advantages of friendship with some great man of their own profession who is, unfortunately, dead.) The dignitary's wife had introduced this worthy to the Epanchins. This lady posed as the patroness of literary people, and she certainly had succeeded in obtaining pensions for a few of them, thanks to her influence with those in authority on such matters. She was a lady of weight in her own way. Her age was about forty-five, so that she was a very young wife for such an elderly husband as the dignitary. She had by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 337 been a beauty in her day and still loved, as many ladies of forty-five do love, to dress a little too smartly. Her intellect was nothing to boast of, and her literary knowledge very doubtful. Literary patronage was, however, with her as much a mania as was the love of gorgeous clothes. Many books and translations were dedicated to her by her proteges, and a few of these talented individuals had published some of their own letters to her, upon very weighty subjects. This, then, was the society that the prince accepted at once as true coin, as pure gold without alloy. It so happened, however, that on this particular evening all these good people were in excellent humour and highly pleased with themselves. Every one of them felt that they were doing the Epanchins the greatest possible honour by their presence. But alas! the prince never suspected any such subtleties! For instance, he had no suspicion of the fact that the Epanchins, having in their mind so important a step as the marriage of their daughter, would never think of presuming to take it without having previously "shown off" the proposed husband to the dignitary--the recognized patron of the family. The latter, too, though he would probably have received news of a great disaster to the Epanchin family with perfect composure, would nevertheless have considered it a personal offence if they had dared to marry their daughter without his advice, or we might almost say, his leave. The amiable and undoubtedly witty Prince N. could not but feel that he was as a sun, risen for one night only to shine upon the Epanchin drawing-room. He accounted them immeasurably his inferiors, and it was this feeling which caused his special amiability and delightful ease and grace towards them. He knew very well that he must tell some story this evening for the edification of the company, and led up to it with the inspiration of anticipatory triumph. The prince, when he heard the story afterwards, felt that he had never yet come across so wonderful a humorist, or such remarkable brilliancy as was shown by this man; and yet if he had only known it, this story was the oldest, stalest, and most worn-out yarn, and every drawing-room in town was sick to death of it. It was only in the innocent Epanchin household that it passed for a new and brilliant tale--as a sudden and striking reminiscence of a splendid and talented man. Even the German poet, though as amiable as possible, felt that he was doing the house the greatest of honours by his presence in it. But the prince only looked at the bright side; he did not turn the coat and see the shabby lining. Aglaya had not foreseen that particular calamity. She herself looked wonderfully beautiful this evening. All three sisters were dressed very tastefully, and their hair was done with special care. Aglaya sat next to Evgenie Pavlovitch, and laughed and talked to him with an unusual display of friendliness. Evgenie himself behaved rather more sedately than usual, probably out of respect to the dignitary. Evgenie had been known in society for a long while. He had appeared at the Epanchins' today with crape on his hat, and Princess Bielokonski had commended this action on his part. Not every society man would have worn crape for "such an uncle." Lizabetha Prokofievna had liked it also, but was too preoccupied to take much notice. The prince remarked that Aglaya looked attentively at him two or three times, and seemed to be satisfied with his behaviour. Little by little he became very happy indeed. All his late anxieties and apprehensions (after his conversation with Lebedeff) now appeared like so many bad dreams--impossible, and even laughable. He did not speak much, only answering such questions as were put to him, and gradually settled down into unbroken silence, listening to what went on, and steeped in perfect satisfaction and contentment. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 338 Little by little a sort of inspiration, however, began to stir within him, ready to spring into life at the right moment. When he did begin to speak, it was accidentally, in response to a question, and apparently without any special object. VII. WHILE he feasted his eyes upon Aglaya, as she talked merrily with Evgenie and Prince N., suddenly the old anglomaniac, who was talking to the dignitary in another corner of the room, apparently telling him a story about something or other--suddenly this gentleman pronounced the name of "Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff" aloud. The prince quickly turned towards him, and listened. The conversation had been on the subject of land, and the present disorders, and there must have been something amusing said, for the old man had begun to laugh at his companion's heated expressions. The latter was describing in eloquent words how, in consequence of recent legislation, he was obliged to sell a beautiful estate in the N. province, not because he wanted ready money--in fact, he was obliged to sell it at half its value. "To avoid another lawsuit about the Pavlicheff estate, I ran away," he said. "With a few more inheritances of that kind I should soon be ruined!" At this point General Epanchin, noticing how interested Muishkin had become in the conversation, said to him, in a low tone: "That gentleman--Ivan Petrovitch--is a relation of your late friend, Mr. Pavlicheff. You wanted to find some of his relations, did you not?" The general, who had been talking to his chief up to this moment, had observed the prince's solitude and silence, and was anxious to draw him into the conversation, and so introduce him again to the notice of some of the important personages. "Lef Nicolaievitch was a ward of Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff, after the death of his own parents," he remarked, meeting Ivan Petrovitch's eye. "Very happy to meet him, I'm sure," remarked the latter. "I remember Lef Nicolaievitch well. When General Epanchin introduced us just now, I recognized you at once, prince. You are very little changed, though I saw you last as a child of some ten or eleven years old. There was something in your features, I suppose, that--" "You saw me as a child!" exclaimed the prince, with surprise. "Oh! yes, long ago," continued Ivan Petrovitch, "while you were living with my cousin at Zlatoverhoff. You don't remember me? No, I dare say you don't; you had some malady at the time, I remember. It was so serious that I was surprised--" "No; I remember nothing!" said the prince. A few more words of explanation followed, words which were spoken without the smallest excitement by his companion, but which evoked the greatest agitation in the prince; and it was discovered that two old ladies to whose care the prince had been left by Pavlicheff, and who lived at Zlatoverhoff, were also relations of Ivan Petrovitch. The latter had no idea and could give no information as to why Pavlicheff had taken so great an interest in the little prince, his ward. "In point of fact I don't think I thought much about it," said the old fellow. He seemed to have a wonderfully good memory, however, for he told the prince all about the two old ladies, Pavlicheff's cousins, who had taken by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 339 care of him, and whom, he declared, he had taken to task for being too severe with the prince as a small sickly boy--the elder sister, at least; the younger had been kind, he recollected. They both now lived in another province, on a small estate left to them by Pavlicheff. The prince listened to all this with eyes sparkling with emotion and delight. He declared with unusual warmth that he would never forgive himself for having travelled about in the central provinces during these last six months without having hunted up his two old friends. He declared, further, that he had intended to go every day, but had always been prevented by circumstances; but that now he would promise himself the pleasure--however far it was, he would find them out. And so Ivan Petrovitch REALLY knew Natalia Nikitishna!- -what a saintly nature was hers!--and Martha Nikitishna! Ivan Petrovitch must excuse him, but really he was not quite fair on dear old Martha. She was severe, perhaps; but then what else could she be with such a little idiot as he was then? (Ha, ha.) He really was an idiot then, Ivan Petrovitch must know, though he might not believe it. (Ha, ha.) So he had really seen him there! Good heavens! And was he really and truly and actually a cousin of Pavlicheff's? "I assure you of it," laughed Ivan Petrovitch, gazing amusedly at the prince. "Oh! I didn't say it because I DOUBT the fact, you know. (Ha, ha.) How could I doubt such a thing? (Ha, ha, ha.) I made the remark because--because Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff was such a splendid man, don't you see! Such a high-souled man, he really was, I assure you." The prince did not exactly pant for breath, but he "seemed almost to CHOKE out of pure simplicity and goodness of heart," as Adelaida expressed it, on talking the party over with her fiance, the Prince S., next morning. "But, my goodness me," laughed Ivan Petrovitch, "why can't I be cousin to even a splendid man?" "Oh, dear!" cried the prince, confused, trying to hurry his words out, and growing more and more eager every moment: "I've gone and said another stupid thing. I don't know what to say. I--I didn't mean that, you know--I--I--he really was such a splendid man, wasn't he?" The prince trembled all over. Why was he so agitated? Why had he flown into such transports of delight without any apparent reason? He had far outshot the measure of joy and emotion consistent with the occasion. Why this was it would be difficult to say. He seemed to feel warmly and deeply grateful to someone for something or other--perhaps to Ivan Petrovitch; but likely enough to all the guests, individually, and collectively. He was much too happy. Ivan Petrovitch began to stare at him with some surprise; the dignitary, too, looked at him with considerable attention; Princess Bielokonski glared at him angrily, and compressed her lips. Prince N., Evgenie, Prince S., and the girls, all broke off their own conversations and listened. Aglaya seemed a little startled; as for Lizabetha Prokofievna, her heart sank within her. This was odd of Lizabetha Prokofievna and her daughters. They had themselves decided that it would be better if the prince did not talk all the evening. Yet seeing him sitting silent and alone, but perfectly happy, they had been on the point of exerting themselves to draw him into one of the groups of talkers around the room. Now that he was in the midst of a talk they became more than ever anxious and perturbed. "That he was a splendid man is perfectly true; you are quite right," repeated Ivan Petrovitch, but seriously this time. "He was a fine and a worthy fellow--worthy, one may say, of the highest respect," he added, more and more seriously at each pause; " and it is agreeable to see, on your part, such--" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 340 "Wasn't it this same Pavlicheff about whom there was a strange story in connection with some abbot? I don't remember who the abbot was, but I remember at one time everybody was talking about it," remarked the old dignitary. "Yes--Abbot Gurot, a Jesuit," said Ivan Petrovitch. "Yes, that's the sort of thing our best men are apt to do. A man of rank, too, and rich--a man who, if he had continued to serve, might have done anything; and then to throw up the service and everything else in order to go over to Roman Catholicism and turn Jesuit-- openly, too--almost triumphantly. By Jove! it was positively a mercy that he died when he did--it was indeed--everyone said so at the time." The prince was beside himself. "Pavlicheff?--Pavlicheff turned Roman Catholic? Impossible!" he cried, in horror. "H'm! impossible is rather a strong word," said Ivan Petrovitch. "You must allow, my dear prince... However, of course you value the memory of the deceased so very highly; and he certainly was the kindest of men; to which fact, by the way, I ascribe, more than to anything else, the success of the abbot in influencing his religious convictions. But you may ask me, if you please, how much trouble and worry I, personally, had over that business, and especially with this same Gurot! Would you believe it," he continued, addressing the dignitary, "they actually tried to put in a claim under the deceased's will, and I had to resort to the very strongest measures in order to bring them to their senses? I assure you they knew their cue, did these gentlemen-- wonderful! Thank goodness all this was in Moscow, and I got the Court, you know, to help me, and we soon brought them to their senses. "You wouldn't believe how you have pained and astonished me," cried the prince. "Very sorry; but in point of fact, you know, it was all nonsense and would have ended in smoke, as usual--I'm sure of that. Last year,"--he turned to the old man again,--"Countess K. joined some Roman Convent abroad. Our people never seem to be able to offer any resistance so soon as they get into the hands of these-- intriguers--especially abroad." "That is all thanks to our lassitude, I think," replied the old man, with authority. "And then their way of preaching; they have a skilful manner of doing it! And they know how to startle one, too. I got quite a fright myself in '32, in Vienna, I assure you; but I didn't cave in to them, I ran away instead, ha, ha!" "Come, come, I've always heard that you ran away with the beautiful Countess Levitsky that time--throwing up everything in order to do it--and not from the Jesuits at all," said Princess Bielokonski, suddenly. "Well, yes--but we call it from the Jesuits, you know; it comes to the same thing," laughed the old fellow, delighted with the pleasant recollection. "You seem to be very religious," he continued, kindly, addressing the prince," which is a thing one meets so seldom nowadays among young people." The prince was listening open-mouthed, and still in a condition of excited agitation. The old man was evidently interested in him, and anxious to study him more closely. "Pavlicheff was a man of bright intellect and a good Christian, a sincere Christian," said the prince, suddenly. "How could he possibly embrace a faith which is unchristian? Roman Catholicism is, so to speak, simply the same thing as unchristianity," he added with flashing eyes, which seemed to take in everybody in the room. "Come, that's a little TOO strong, isn't it?" murmured the old man, glancing at General Epanchin in surprise. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 341 "How do you make out that the Roman Catholic religion is UNCHRISTIAN? What is it, then?" asked Ivan Petrovitch, turning to the prince. "It is not a Christian religion, in the first place," said the latter, in extreme agitation, quite out of proportion to the necessity of the moment. "And in the second place, Roman Catholicism is, in my opinion, worse than Atheism itself. Yes-- that is my opinion. Atheism only preaches a negation, but Romanism goes further; it preaches a disfigured, distorted Christ--it preaches Anti-Christ--I assure you, I swear it! This is my own personal conviction, and it has long distressed me. The Roman Catholic believes that the Church on earth cannot stand without universal temporal Power. He cries 'non possumus!' In my opinion the Roman Catholic religion is not a faith at all, but simply a continuation of the Roman Empire, and everything is subordinated to this idea--beginning with faith. The Pope has seized territories and an earthly throne, and has held them with the sword. And so the thing has gone on, only that to the sword they have added lying, intrigue, deceit, fanaticism, superstition, swindling;--they have played fast and loose with the most sacred and sincere feelings of men;--they have exchanged everything--everything for money, for base earthly POWER! And is this not the teaching of Anti-Christ? How could the upshot of all this be other than Atheism? Atheism is the child of Roman Catholicism--it proceeded from these Romans themselves, though perhaps they would not believe it. It grew and fattened on hatred of its parents; it is the progeny of their lies and spiritual feebleness. Atheism! In our country it is only among the upper classes that you find unbelievers; men who have lost the root or spirit of their faith; but abroad whole masses of the people are beginning to profess unbelief--at first because of the darkness and lies by which they were surrounded; but now out of fanaticism, out of loathing for the Church and Christianity!" The prince paused to get breath. He had spoken with extraordinary rapidity, and was very pale. All present interchanged glances, but at last the old dignitary burst out laughing frankly. Prince N. took out his eye-glass to have a good look at the speaker. The German poet came out of his corner and crept nearer to the table, with a spiteful smile. "You exaggerate the matter very much," said Ivan Petrovitch, with rather a bored air. "There are, in the foreign Churches, many representatives of their faith who are worthy of respect and esteem." "Oh, but I did not speak of individual representatives. I was merely talking about Roman Catholicism, and its essence--of Rome itself. A Church can never entirely disappear; I never hinted at that!" "Agreed that all this may be true; but we need not discuss a subject which belongs to the domain of theology." "Oh, no; oh, no! Not to theology alone, I assure you! Why, Socialism is the progeny of Romanism and of the Romanistic spirit. It and its brother Atheism proceed from Despair in opposition to Catholicism. It seeks to replace in itself the moral power of religion, in order to appease the spiritual thirst of parched humanity and save it; not by Christ, but by force. 'Don't dare to believe in God, don't dare to possess any individuality, any property! Fraternite ou la Mort; two million heads. 'By their works ye shall know them'--we are told. And we must not suppose that all this is harmless and without danger to ourselves. Oh, no; we must resist, and quickly, quickly! We must let out Christ shine forth upon the Western nations, our Christ whom we have preserved intact, and whom they have never known. Not as slaves, allowing ourselves to be caught by the hooks of the Jesuits, but carrying our Russian civilization to THEM, we must stand before them, not letting it be said among us that their preaching is 'skilful,' as someone expressed it just now." "But excuse me, excuse me;" cried Ivan Petrovitch considerably disturbed, and looking around uneasily. "Your ideas are, of course, most praiseworthy, and in the highest degree patriotic; but you exaggerate the matter terribly. It would be better if we dropped the subject." "No, sir, I do not exaggerate, I understate the matter, if anything, undoubtedly understate it; simply because I by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 342 cannot express myself as I should like, but--" "Allow me!" The prince was silent. He sat straight up in his chair and gazed fervently at Ivan Petrovitch. "It seems to me that you have been too painfully impressed by the news of what happened to your good benefactor," said the old dignitary, kindly, and with the utmost calmness of demeanour. "You are excitable, perhaps as the result of your solitary life. If you would make up your mind to live more among your fellows in society, I trust, I am sure, that the world would be glad to welcome you, as a remarkable young man; and you would soon find yourself able to look at things more calmly. You would see that all these things are much simpler than you think; and, besides, these rare cases come about, in my opinion, from ennui and from satiety." "Exactly, exactly! That is a true thought!" cried the prince. "From ennui, from our ennui but not from satiety! Oh, no, you are wrong there! Say from THIRST if you like; the thirst of fever! And please do not suppose that this is so small a matter that we may have a laugh at it and dismiss it; we must be able to foresee our disasters and arm against them. We Russians no sooner arrive at the brink of the water, and realize that we are really at the brink, than we are so delighted with the outlook that in we plunge and swim to the farthest point we can see. Why is this? You say you are surprised at Pavlicheff's action; you ascribe it to madness, to kindness of heart, and what not, but it is not so. "Our Russian intensity not only astonishes ourselves; all Europe wonders at our conduct in such cases! For, if one of us goes over to Roman Catholicism, he is sure to become a Jesuit at once, and a rabid one into the bargain. If one of us becomes an Atheist, he must needs begin to insist on the prohibition of faith in God by force, that is, by the sword. Why is this? Why does he then exceed all bounds at once? Because he has found land at last, the fatherland that he sought in vain before; and, because his soul is rejoiced to find it, he throws himself upon it and kisses it! Oh, it is not from vanity alone, it is not from feelings of vanity that Russians become Atheists and Jesuits! But from spiritual thirst, from anguish of longing for higher things, for dry firm land, for foothold on a fatherland which they never believed in because they never knew it. It is easier for a Russian to become an Atheist, than for any other nationality in the world. And not only does a Russian 'become an Atheist,' but he actually BELIEVES IN Atheism, just as though he had found a new faith, not perceiving that he has pinned his faith to a negation. Such is our anguish of thirst! 'Whoso has no country has no God.' That is not my own expression; it is the expression of a merchant, one of the Old Believers, whom I once met while travelling. He did not say exactly these words. I think his expression was: "'Whoso forsakes his country forsakes his God.' "But let these thirsty Russian souls find, like Columbus' discoverers, a new world; let them find the Russian world, let them search and discover all the gold and treasure that lies hid in the bosom of their own land! Show them the restitution of lost humanity, in the future, by Russian thought alone, and by means of the God and of the Christ of our Russian faith, and you will see how mighty and just and wise and good a giant will rise up before the eyes of the astonished and frightened world; astonished because they expect nothing but the sword from us, because they think they will get nothing out of us but barbarism. This has been the case up to now, and the longer matters go on as they are now proceeding, the more clear will be the truth of what I say; and I--" But at this moment something happened which put a most unexpected end to the orator's speech. All this heated tirade, this outflow of passionate words and ecstatic ideas which seemed to hustle and tumble over each other as they fell from his lips, bore evidence of some unusually disturbed mental condition in the young fellow who had "boiled over" in such a remarkable manner, without any apparent reason. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 343 Of those who were present, such as knew the prince listened to his outburst in a state of alarm, some with a feeling of mortification. It was so unlike his usual timid self-constraint; so inconsistent with his usual taste and tact, and with his instinctive feeling for the higher proprieties. They could not understand the origin of the outburst; it could not be simply the news of Pavlicheff's perversion. By the ladies the prince was regarded as little better than a lunatic, and Princess Bielokonski admitted afterwards that "in another minute she would have bolted." The two old gentlemen looked quite alarmed. The old general (Epanchin's chief) sat and glared at the prince in severe displeasure. The colonel sat immovable. Even the German poet grew a little pale, though he wore his usual artificial smile as he looked around to see what the others would do. In point of fact it is quite possible that the matter would have ended in a very commonplace and natural way in a few minutes. The undoubtedly astonished, but now more collected, General Epanchin had several times endeavoured to interrupt the prince, and not having succeeded he was now preparing to take firmer and more vigorous measures to attain his end. In another minute or two he would probably have made up his mind to lead the prince quietly out of the room, on the plea of his being ill (and it was more than likely that the general was right in his belief that the prince WAS actually ill), but it so happened that destiny had something different in store. At the beginning of the evening, when the prince first came into the room, he had sat down as far as possible from the Chinese vase which Aglaya had spoken of the day before. Will it be believed that, after Aglaya's alarming words, an ineradicable conviction had taken possession of his mind that, however he might try to avoid this vase next day, he must certainly break it? But so it was. During the evening other impressions began to awaken in his mind, as we have seen, and he forgot his presentiment. But when Pavlicheff was mentioned and the general introduced him to Ivan Petrovitch, he had changed his place, and went over nearer to the table; when, it so happened, he took the chair nearest to the beautiful vase, which stood on a pedestal behind him, just about on a level with his elbow. As he spoke his last words he had risen suddenly from his seat with a wave of his arm, and there was a general cry of horror. The huge vase swayed backwards and forwards; it seemed to be uncertain whether or no to topple over on to the head of one of the old men, but eventually determined to go the other way, and came crashing over towards the German poet, who darted out of the way in terror. The crash, the cry, the sight of the fragments of valuable china covering the carpet, the alarm of the company--what all this meant to the poor prince it would be difficult to convey to the mind of the reader, or for him to imagine. But one very curious fact was that all the shame and vexation and mortification which he felt over the accident were less powerful than the deep impression of the almost supernatural truth of his premonition. He stood still in alarm--in almost superstitious alarm, for a moment; then all mists seemed to clear away from his eyes; he was conscious of nothing but light and joy and ecstasy; his breath came and went; but the moment passed. Thank God it was not that! He drew a long breath and looked around. For some minutes he did not seem to comprehend the excitement around him; that is, he comprehended it and saw everything, but he stood aside, as it were, like someone invisible in a fairy tale, as though he had nothing to do with what was going on, though it pleased him to take an interest in it. He saw them gather up the broken bits of china; he heard the loud talking of the guests and observed how pale by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 344 Aglaya looked, and how very strangely she was gazing at him. There was no hatred in her expression, and no anger whatever. It was full of alarm for him, and sympathy and affection, while she looked around at the others with flashing, angry eyes. His heart filled with a sweet pain as he gazed at her. At length he observed, to his amazement, that all had taken their seats again, and were laughing and talking as though nothing had happened. Another minute and the laughter grew louder--they were laughing at him, at his dumb stupor--laughing kindly and merrily. Several of them spoke to him, and spoke so kindly and cordially, especially Lizabetha Prokofievna--she was saying the kindest possible things to him. Suddenly he became aware that General Epanchin was tapping him on the shoulder; Ivan Petrovitch was laughing too, but still more kind and sympathizing was the old dignitary. He took the prince by the hand and pressed it warmly; then he patted it, and quietly urged him to recollect himself--speaking to him exactly as he would have spoken to a little frightened child, which pleased the prince wonderfully; and next seated him beside himself. The prince gazed into his face with pleasure, but still seemed to have no power to speak. His breath failed him. The old man's face pleased him greatly. "Do you really forgive me?" he said at last. "And--and Lizabetha Prokofievna too?" The laugh increased, tears came into the prince's eyes, he could not believe in all this kindness--he was enchanted. "The vase certainly was a very beautiful one. I remember it here for fifteen years--yes, quite that!" remarked Ivan Petrovitch. "Oh, what a dreadful calamity! A wretched vase smashed, and a man half dead with remorse about it," said Lizabetha Prokofievna, loudly. "What made you so dreadfully startled, Lef Nicolaievitch?" she added, a little timidly. "Come, my dear boy! cheer up. You really alarm me, taking the accident so to heart." "Do you forgive me all--ALL, besides the vase, I mean?" said the prince, rising from his seat once more, but the old gentleman caught his hand and drew him down again--he seemed unwilling to let him go. "C'est tres-curieux et c'est tres-serieux," he whispered across the table to Ivan Petrovitch, rather loudly. Probably the prince heard him. "So that I have not offended any of you? You will not believe how happy I am to be able to think so. It is as it should be. As if I COULD offend anyone here! I should offend you again by even suggesting such a thing." "Calm yourself, my dear fellow. You are exaggerating again; you really have no occasion to be so grateful to us. It is a feeling which does you great credit, but an exaggeration, for all that." "I am not exactly thanking you, I am only feeling a growing admiration for you--it makes me happy to look at you. I dare say I am speaking very foolishly, but I must speak--I must explain, if it be out of nothing better than self-respect." All he said and did was abrupt, confused, feverish--very likely the words he spoke, as often as not, were not those he wished to say. He seemed to inquire whether he MIGHT speak. His eyes lighted on Princess Bielokonski. "All right, my friend, talk away, talk away!" she remarked. "Only don't lose your breath; you were in such a hurry when you began, and look what you've come to now! Don't be afraid of speaking-- all these ladies and gentlemen have seen far stranger people than yourself; you don't astonish THEM. You are nothing out-of-the-way remarkable, you know. You've done nothing but break a vase, and give us all a fright." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 345 The prince listened, smiling. "Wasn't it you," he said, suddenly turning to the old gentleman, "who saved the student Porkunoff and a clerk called Shoabrin from being sent to Siberia, two or three months since?" The old dignitary blushed a little, and murmured that the prince had better not excite himself further. "And I have heard of YOU," continued the prince, addressing Ivan Petrovitch, "that when some of your villagers were burned out you gave them wood to build up their houses again, though they were no longer your serfs and had behaved badly towards you." "Oh, come, come! You are exaggerating," said Ivan Petrovitch, beaming with satisfaction, all the same. He was right, however, in this instance, for the report had reached the prince's ears in an incorrect form. "And you, princess," he went on, addressing Princess Bielokonski, "was it not you who received me in Moscow, six months since, as kindly as though I had been your own son, in response to a letter from Lizabetha Prokofievna; and gave me one piece of advice, again as to your own son, which I shall never forget? Do you remember?" "What are you making such a fuss about?" said the old lady, with annoyance. "You are a good fellow, but very silly. One gives you a halfpenny, and you are as grateful as though one had saved your life. You think this is praiseworthy on your part, but it is not --it is not, indeed." She seemed to be very angry, but suddenly burst out laughing, quite good-humouredly. Lizabetha Prokofievna's face brightened up, too; so did that of General Epanchin. "I told you Lef Nicolaievitch was a man--a man--if only he would not be in such a hurry, as the princess remarked," said the latter, with delight. Aglaya alone seemed sad and depressed; her face was flushed, perhaps with indignation. "He really is very charming," whispered the old dignitary to Ivan Petrovitch. "I came into this room with anguish in my heart," continued the prince, with ever-growing agitation, speaking quicker and quicker, and with increasing strangeness. "I--I was afraid of you all, and afraid of myself. I was most afraid of myself. When I returned to Petersburg, I promised myself to make a point of seeing our greatest men, and members of our oldest families--the old families like my own. I am now among princes like myself, am I not? I wished to know you, and it was necessary, very, very necessary. I had always heard so much that was evil said of you all--more evil than good; as to how small and petty were your interests, how absurd your habits, how shallow your education, and so on. There is so much written and said about you! I came here today with anxious curiosity; I wished to see for myself and form my own convictions as to whether it were true that the whole of this upper stratum of Russian society is WORTHLESS, has outlived its time, has existed too long, and is only fit to die-- and yet is dying with petty, spiteful warring against that which is destined to supersede it and take its place--hindering the Coming Men, and knowing not that itself is in a dying condition. I did not fully believe in this view even before, for there never was such a class among us--excepting perhaps at court, by accident--or by uniform; but now there is not even that, is there? It has vanished, has it not?" "No, not a bit of it," said Ivan Petrovitch, with a sarcastic laugh. "Good Lord, he's off again!" said Princess Bielokonski, impatiently. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 346 "Laissez-le dire! He is trembling all over," said the old man, in a warning whisper. The prince certainly was beside himself. "Well? What have I seen?" he continued. "I have seen men of graceful simplicity of intellect; I have seen an old man who is not above speaking kindly and even LISTENING to a boy like myself; I see before me persons who can understand, who can forgive--kind, good Russian hearts--hearts almost as kind and cordial as I met abroad. Imagine how delighted I must have been, and how surprised! Oh, let me express this feeling! I have so often heard, and I have even believed, that in society there was nothing but empty forms, and that reality had vanished; but I now see for myself that this can never be the case HERE, among us--it may be the order elsewhere, but not in Russia. Surely you are not all Jesuits and deceivers! I heard Prince N.'s story just now. Was it not simple-minded, spontaneous humour? Could such words come from the lips of a man who is dead?--a man whose heart and talents are dried up? Could dead men and women have treated me so kindly as you have all been treating me to-day? Is there not material for the future in all this--for hope? Can such people fail to UNDERSTAND? Can such men fall away from reality?" "Once more let us beg you to be calm, my dear boy. We'll talk of all this another time--I shall do so with the greatest pleasure, for one," said the old dignitary, with a smile. Ivan Petrovitch grunted and twisted round in his chair. General Epanchin moved nervously. The latter's chief had started a conversation with the wife of the dignitary, and took no notice whatever of the prince, but the old lady very often glanced at him, and listened to what he was saying. "No, I had better speak," continued the prince, with a new outburst of feverish emotion, and turning towards the old man with an air of confidential trustfulness." Yesterday, Aglaya Ivanovna forbade me to talk, and even specified the particular subjects I must not touch upon--she knows well enough that I am odd when I get upon these matters. I am nearly twenty-seven years old, and yet I know I am little better than a child. I have no right to express my ideas, and said so long ago. Only in Moscow, with Rogojin, did I ever speak absolutely freely! He and I read Pushkin together--all his works. Rogojin knew nothing of Pushkin, had not even heard his name. I am always afraid of spoiling a great Thought or Idea by my absurd manner. I have no eloquence, I know. I always make the wrong gestures-- inappropriate gestures--and therefore I degrade the Thought, and raise a laugh instead of doing my subject justice. I have no sense of proportion either, and that is the chief thing. I know it would be much better if I were always to sit still and say nothing. When I do so, I appear to be quite a sensible sort of a person, and what's more, I think about things. But now I must speak; it is better that I should. I began to speak because you looked so kindly at me; you have such a beautiful face. I promised Aglaya Ivanovna yesterday that I would not speak all the evening." "Really?" said the old man, smiling. "But, at times, I can't help thinking that I am. wrong in feeling so about it, you know. Sincerity is more important than elocution, isn't it?" "Sometimes." "I want to explain all to you--everything--everything! I know you think me Utopian, don't you--an idealist? Oh, no! I'm not, indeed--my ideas are all so simple. You don't believe me? You are smiling. Do you know, I am sometimes very wicked--for I lose my faith? This evening as I came here, I thought to myself, 'What shall I talk about? How am I to begin, so that they may be able to understand partially, at all events?' How afraid I was-- dreadfully afraid! And yet, how COULD I be afraid--was it not shameful of me? Was I afraid of finding a bottomless abyss of empty selfishness? Ah! that's why I am so happy at this moment, because I find there is no bottomless abyss at all--but good, healthy material, full of life. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 347 "It is not such a very dreadful circumstance that we are odd people, is it? For we really are odd, you know--careless, reckless, easily wearied of anything. We don't look thoroughly into matters--don't care to understand things. We are all like this--you and I, and all of them! Why, here are you, now--you are not a bit angry with me for calling you odd,' are you? And, if so, surely there is good material in you? Do you know, I sometimes think it is a good thing to be odd. We can forgive one another more easily, and be more humble. No one can begin by being perfect--there is much one cannot understand in life at first. In order to attain to perfection, one must begin by failing to understand much. And if we take in knowledge too quickly, we very likely are not taking it in at all. I say all this to you--you who by this time understand so much--and doubtless have failed to understand so much, also. I am not afraid of you any longer. You are not angry that a mere boy should say such words to you, are you? Of course not! You know how to forget and to forgive. You are laughing, Ivan Petrovitch? You think I am a champion of other classes of people--that I am THEIR advocate, a democrat, and an orator of Equality?" The prince laughed hysterically; he had several times burst into these little, short nervous laughs. "Oh, no--it is for you, for myself, and for all of us together, that I am alarmed. I am a prince of an old family myself, and I am sitting among my peers; and I am talking like this in the hope of saving us all; in the hope that our class will not disappear altogether--into the darkness--unguessing its danger--blaming everything around it, and losing ground every day. Why should we disappear and give place to others, when we may still, if we choose, remain in the front rank and lead the battle? Let us be servants, that we may become lords in due season!" He tried to get upon his feet again, but the old man still restrained him, gazing at him with increasing perturbation as he went on. "Listen--I know it is best not to speak! It is best simply to give a good example--simply to begin the work. I have done this-- I have begun, and--and--oh! CAN anyone be unhappy, really? Oh! what does grief matter--what does misfortune matter, if one knows how to be happy? Do you know, I cannot understand how anyone can pass by a green tree, and not feel happy only to look at it! How anyone can talk to a man and not feel happy in loving him! Oh, it is my own fault that I cannot express myself well enough! But there are lovely things at every step I take--things which even the most miserable man must recognize as beautiful. Look at a little child--look at God's day-dawn--look at the grass growing-- look at the eyes that love you, as they gaze back into your eyes!" He had risen, and was speaking standing up. The old gentleman was looking at him now in unconcealed alarm. Lizabetha Prokofievna wrung her hands. "Oh, my God!" she cried. She had guessed the state of the case before anyone else. Aglaya rushed quickly up to him, and was just in time to receive him in her arms, and to hear with dread and horror that awful, wild cry as he fell writhing to the ground. There he lay on the carpet, and someone quickly placed a cushion under his head. No one had expected this. In a quarter of an hour or so Prince N. and Evgenie Pavlovitch and the old dignitary were hard at work endeavouring to restore the harmony of the evening, but it was of no avail, and very soon after the guests separated and went their ways. A great deal of sympathy was expressed; a considerable amount of advice was volunteered; Ivan Petrovitch expressed his opinion that the young man was "a Slavophile, or something of that sort"; but that it was not a dangerous development. The old dignitary said nothing. True enough, most of the guests, next day and the day after, were not in very good humour. Ivan Petrovitch was a little offended, but not seriously so. General Epanchin's chief was rather cool towards him for some by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 348 while after the occurrence. The old dignitary, as patron of the family, took the opportunity of murmuring some kind of admonition to the general, and added, in flattering terms, that he was most interested in Aglaya's future. He was a man who really did possess a kind heart, although his interest in the prince, in the earlier part of the evening, was due, among other reasons, to the latter's connection with Nastasia Philipovna, according to popular report. He had heard a good deal of this story here and there, and was greatly interested in it, so much so that he longed to ask further questions about it. Princess Bielokonski, as she drove away on this eventful evening, took occasion to say to Lizabetha Prokofievna: "Well--he's a good match--and a bad one; and if you want my opinion, more bad than good. You can see for yourself the man is an invalid." Lizabetha therefore decided that the prince was impossible as a husband for Aglaya; and during the ensuing night she made a vow that never while she lived should he marry Aglaya. With this resolve firmly impressed upon her mind, she awoke next day; but during the morning, after her early lunch, she fell into a condition of remarkable inconsistency. In reply to a very guarded question of her sisters', Aglaya had answered coldly, but exceedingly haughtily: "I have never given him my word at all, nor have I ever counted him as my future husband--never in my life. He is just as little to me as all the rest." Lizabetha Prokofievna suddenly flared up. "I did not expect that of you, Aglaya," she said. "He is an impossible husband for you,--I know it; and thank God that we agree upon that point; but I did not expect to hear such words from you. I thought I should hear a very different tone from you. I would have turned out everyone who was in the room last night and kept him,--that's the sort of man he is, in my opinion!" Here she suddenly paused, afraid of what she had just said. But she little knew how unfair she was to her daughter at that moment. It was all settled in Aglaya's mind. She was only waiting for the hour that would bring the matter to a final climax; and every hint, every careless probing of her wound, did but further lacerate her heart. VIII. THIS same morning dawned for the prince pregnant with no less painful presentiments,--which fact his physical state was, of course, quite enough to account for; but he was so indefinably melancholy,--his sadness could not attach itself to anything in particular, and this tormented him more than anything else. Of course certain facts stood before him, clear and painful, but his sadness went beyond all that he could remember or imagine; he realized that he was powerless to console himself unaided. Little by little he began to develop the expectation that this day something important, something decisive, was to happen to him. His attack of yesterday had been a slight one. Excepting some little heaviness in the head and pain in the limbs, he did not feel any particular effects. His brain worked all right, though his soul was heavy within him. He rose late, and immediately upon waking remembered all about the previous evening; he also remembered, though not quite so clearly, how, half an hour after his fit, he had been carried home. He soon heard that a messenger from the Epanchins' had already been to inquire after him. At half-past eleven another arrived; and this pleased him. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 349 Vera Lebedeff was one of the first to come to see him and offer her services. No sooner did she catch sight of him than she burst into tears; but when he tried to soothe her she began to laugh. He was quite struck by the girl's deep sympathy for him; he seized her hand and kissed it. Vera flushed crimson. "Oh, don't, don't!" she exclaimed in alarm, snatching her hand away. She went hastily out of the room in a state of strange confusion. Lebedeff also came to see the prince, in a great hurry to get away to the "deceased," as he called General Ivolgin, who was alive still, but very ill. Colia also turned up, and begged the prince for pity's sake to tell him all he knew about his father which had been concealed from him till now. He said he had found out nearly everything since yesterday; the poor boy was in a state of deep affliction. With all the sympathy which he could bring into play, the prince told Colia the whole story without reserve, detailing the facts as clearly as he could. The tale struck Colia like a thunderbolt. He could not speak. He listened silently, and cried softly to himself the while. The prince perceived that this was an impression which would last for the whole of the boy's life. He made haste to explain his view of the matter, and pointed out that the old man's approaching death was probably brought on by horror at the thought of his action; and that it was not everyone who was capable of such a feeling. Colia's eyes flashed as he listened. "Gania and Varia and Ptitsin are a worthless lot! I shall not quarrel with them; but from this moment our feet shall not travel the same road. Oh, prince, I have felt much that is quite new to me since yesterday! It is a lesson for me. I shall now consider my mother as entirely my responsibility; though she may be safe enough with Varia. Still, meat and drink is not everything." He jumped up and hurried off, remembering suddenly that he was wanted at his father's bedside; but before he went out of the room he inquired hastily after the prince's health, and receiving the latter's reply, added: "Isn't there something else, prince? I heard yesterday, but I have no right to talk about this... If you ever want a true friend and servant--neither you nor I are so very happy, are we? --come to me. I won't ask you questions, though." He ran off and left the prince more dejected than ever. Everyone seemed to be speaking prophetically, hinting at some misfortune or sorrow to come; they had all looked at him as though they knew something which he did not know. Lebedeff had asked questions, Colia had hinted, and Vera had shed tears. What was it? At last, with a sigh of annoyance, he said to himself that it was nothing but his own cursed sickly suspicion. His face lighted up with joy when, at about two o'clock, he espied the Epanchins coming along to pay him a short visit, "just for a minute." They really had only come for a minute. Lizabetha Prokofievna had announced, directly after lunch, that they would all take a walk together. The information was given in the form of a command, without explanation, drily and abruptly. All had issued forth in obedience to the mandate; that is, the girls, mamma, and Prince S. Lizabetha Prokofievna went off in a direction exactly contrary to the usual one, and all understood very well what she was driving at, but held their peace, fearing to irritate the good lady. She, as though anxious to avoid any conversation, walked ahead, silent and alone. At last Adelaida remarked that it was no use racing along at such a pace, and that she could not keep up with her mother. "Look here," said Lizabetha Prokofievna, turning round suddenly; "we are passing his house. Whatever Aglaya may think, and in spite of anything that may happen, he is not a stranger to us; besides which, he is ill by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 350 and in misfortune. I, for one, shall call in and see him. Let anyone follow me who cares to." Of course every one of them followed her. The prince hastened to apologize, very properly, for yesterday's mishap with the vase, and for the scene generally. "Oh, that's nothing," replied Lizabetha; "I'm not sorry for the vase, I'm sorry for you. H'm! so you can see that there was a 'scene,' can you? Well, it doesn't matter much, for everyone must realize now that it is impossible to be hard on you. Well, au revoir. I advise you to have a walk, and then go to sleep again if you can. Come in as usual, if you feel inclined; and be assured, once for all, whatever happens, and whatever may have happened, you shall always remain the friend of the family--mine, at all events. I can answer for myself." In response to this challenge all the others chimed in and re- echoed mamma's sentiments. And so they took their departure; but in this hasty and kindly designed visit there was hidden a fund of cruelty which Lizabetha Prokofievna never dreamed of. In the words "as usual," and again in her added, "mine, at all events," there seemed an ominous knell of some evil to come. The prince began to think of Aglaya. She had certainly given him a wonderful smile, both at coming and again at leave-taking, but had not said a word, not even when the others all professed their friendship for him. She had looked very intently at him, but that was all. Her face had been paler than usual; she looked as though she had slept badly. The prince made up his mind that he would make a point of going there "as usual," tonight, and looked feverishly at his watch. Vera came in three minutes after the Epanchins had left. "Lef Nicolaievitch," she said, "Aglaya Ivanovna has just given me a message for you." The prince trembled. "Is it a note?" "No, a verbal message; she had hardly time even for that. She begs you earnestly not to go out of the house for a single moment all to-day, until seven o'clock in the evening. It may have been nine; I didn't quite hear." "But--but, why is this? What does it mean?" "I don't know at all; but she said I was to tell you particularly." "Did she say that?" "Not those very words. She only just had time to whisper as she went by; but by the way she looked at me I knew it was important. She looked at me in a way that made my heart stop beating." The prince asked a few more questions, and though he learned nothing else, he became more and more agitated. Left alone, he lay down on the sofa, and began to think. "Perhaps," he thought, "someone is to be with them until nine tonight and she is afraid that I may come and by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 351 make a fool of myself again, in public." So he spent his time longing for the evening and looking at his watch. But the clearing-up of the mystery came long before the evening, and came in the form of a new and agonizing riddle. Half an hour after the Epanchins had gone, Hippolyte arrived, so tired that, almost unconscious, he sank into a chair, and broke into such a fit of coughing that he could not stop. He coughed till the blood came. His eyes glittered, and two red spots on his cheeks grew brighter and brighter. The prince murmured something to him, but Hippolyte only signed that he must be left alone for a while, and sat silent. At last he came to himself. "I am off," he said, hoarsely, and with difficulty. "Shall I see you home?" asked the prince, rising from his seat, but suddenly stopping short as he remembered Aglaya's prohibition against leaving the house. Hippolyte laughed. "I don't mean that I am going to leave your house," he continued, still gasping and coughing. "On the contrary, I thought it absolutely necessary to come and see you; otherwise I should not have troubled you. I am off there, you know, and this time I believe, seriously, that I am off! It's all over. I did not come here for sympathy, believe me. I lay down this morning at ten o'clock with the intention of not rising again before that time; but I thought it over and rose just once more in order to come here; from which you may deduce that I had some reason for wishing to come." "It grieves me to see you so, Hippolyte. Why didn't you send me a message? I would have come up and saved you this trouble." "Well, well! Enough! You've pitied me, and that's all that good manners exact. I forgot, how are you?" "I'm all right; yesterday I was a little--" "I know, I heard; the china vase caught it! I'm sorry I wasn't there. I've come about something important. In the first place I had, the pleasure of seeing Gavrila Ardalionovitch and Aglaya Ivanovna enjoying a rendezvous on the green bench in the park. I was astonished to see what a fool a man can look. I remarked upon the fact to Aglaya Ivanovna when he had gone. I don't think anything ever surprises you, prince!" added Hippolyte, gazing incredulously at the prince's calm demeanour. "To be astonished by nothing is a sign, they say, of a great intellect. In my opinion it would serve equally well as a sign of great foolishness. I am not hinting about you; pardon me! I am very unfortunate today in my expressions. "I knew yesterday that Gavrila Ardalionovitch--" began the prince, and paused in evident confusion, though Hippolyte had shown annoyance at his betraying no surprise. "You knew it? Come, that's news! But no--perhaps better not tell me. And were you a witness of the meeting?" "If you were there yourself you must have known that I was NOT there!" "Oh! but you may have been sitting behind the bushes somewhere. However, I am very glad, on your account, of course. I was beginning to be afraid that Mr. Gania--might have the preference!" "May I ask you, Hippolyte, not to talk of this subject? And not to use such expressions?" "Especially as you know all, eh?" "You are wrong. I know scarcely anything, and Aglaya Ivanovna is aware that I know nothing. I knew nothing by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 352 whatever about this meeting. You say there was a meeting. Very well; let's leave it so--" "Why, what do you mean? You said you knew, and now suddenly you know nothing! You say 'very well; let's leave it so.' But I say, don't be so confiding, especially as you know nothing. You are confiding simply BECAUSE you know nothing. But do you know what these good people have in their minds' eye--Gania and his sister? Perhaps you are suspicious? Well, well, I'll drop the subject!" he added, hastily, observing the prince's impatient gesture. "But I've come to you on my own business; I wish to make you a clear explanation. What a nuisance it is that one cannot die without explanations! I have made such a quantity of them already. Do you wish to hear what I have to say?" "Speak away, I am listening." "Very well, but I'll change my mind, and begin about Gania. Just fancy to begin with, if you can, that I, too, was given an appointment at the green bench today! However, I won't deceive you; I asked for the appointment. I said I had a secret to disclose. I don't know whether I came there too early, I think I must have; but scarcely had I sat down beside Aglaya Ivanovna than I saw Gavrila Ardalionovitch and his sister Varia coming along, arm in arm, just as though they were enjoying a morning walk together. Both of them seemed very much astonished, not to say disturbed, at seeing me; they evidently had not expected the pleasure. Aglaya Ivanovna blushed up, and was actually a little confused. I don't know whether it was merely because I was there, or whether Gania's beauty was too much for her! But anyway, she turned crimson, and then finished up the business in a very funny manner. She jumped up from her seat, bowed back to Gania, smiled to Varia, and suddenly observed: 'I only came here to express my gratitude for all your kind wishes on my behalf, and to say that if I find I need your services, believe me--' Here she bowed them away, as it were, and they both marched off again, looking very foolish. Gania evidently could not make head nor tail of the matter, and turned as red as a lobster; but Varia understood at once that they must get away as quickly as they could, so she dragged Gania away; she is a great deal cleverer than he is. As for myself, I went there to arrange a meeting to be held between Aglaya Ivanovna and Nastasia Philipovna." "Nastasia Philipovna!" cried the prince. "Aha! I think you are growing less cool, my friend, and are beginning to be a trifle surprised, aren't you? I'm glad that you are not above ordinary human feelings, for once. I'll console you a little now, after your consternation. See what I get for serving a young and high-souled maiden! This morning I received a slap in the face from the lady!" "A--a moral one?" asked the prince, involuntarily. "Yes--not a physical one! I don't suppose anyone--even a woman-- would raise a hand against me now. Even Gania would hesitate! I did think at one time yesterday, that he would fly at me, though. I bet anything that I know what you are thinking of now! You are thinking: 'Of course one can't strike the little wretch, but one could suffocate him with a pillow, or a wet towel, when he is asleep! One OUGHT to get rid of him somehow.' I can see in your face that you are thinking that at this very second." "I never thought of such a thing for a moment," said the prince, with disgust. "I don't know--I dreamed last night that I was being suffocated with a wet cloth by--somebody. I'll tell you who it was--Rogojin! What do you think, can a man be suffocated with a wet cloth?" "I don't know." "I've heard so. Well, we'll leave that question just now. Why am I a scandal-monger? Why did she call me a scandal-monger? And mind, AFTER she had heard every word I had to tell her, and had asked all sorts of by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 353 questions besides--but such is the way of women. For HER sake I entered into relations with Rogojin--an interesting man! At HER request I arranged a personal interview between herself and Nastasia Philipovna. Could she have been angry because I hinted that she was enjoying Nastasia Philipovna's 'leavings'? Why, I have been impressing it upon her all this while for her own good. Two letters have I written her in that strain, and I began straight off today about its being humiliating for her. Besides, the word 'leavings' is not my invention. At all events, they all used it at Gania's, and she used it herself. So why am I a scandal-monger? I see--I see you are tremendously amused, at this moment! Probably you are laughing at me and fitting those silly lines to my case-- "'Maybe sad Love upon his setting smiles, And with vain hopes his farewell hour beguiles. "Ha, ha, ha!" Hippolyte suddenly burst into a fit of hysterical laughter, which turned into a choking cough. "Observe," he gasped, through his coughing, "what a fellow Gania is! He talks about Nastasia's 'leavings,' but what does he want to take himself?" The prince sat silent for a long while. His mind was filled with dread and horror. "You spoke of a meeting with Nastasia Philipovna," he said at last, in a low voice. "Oh--come! Surely you must know that there is to be a meeting today between Nastasia and Aglaya Ivanovna, and that Nastasia has been sent for on purpose, through Rogojin, from St. Petersburg? It has been brought about by invitation of Aglaya Ivanovna and my own efforts, and Nastasia is at this moment with Rogojin, not far from here--at Dana Alexeyevna's--that curious friend of hers; and to this questionable house Aglaya Ivanovna is to proceed for a friendly chat with Nastasia Philipovna, and for the settlement of several problems. They are going to play at arithmetic--didn't you know about it? Word of honour?" "It's a most improbable story." "Oh, very well! if it's improbable--it is--that's all! And yet-- where should you have heard it? Though I must say, if a fly crosses the room it's known all over the place here. However, I've warned you, and you may be grateful to me. Well--au revoir-- probably in the next world! One more thing--don't think that I am telling you all this for your sake. Oh, dear, no! Do you know that I dedicated my confession to Aglaya Ivanovna? I did though, and how she took it, ha, ha! Oh, no! I am not acting from any high, exalted motives. But though I may have behaved like a cad to you, I have not done HER any harm. I don't apologize for my words about 'leavings' and all that. I am atoning for that, you see, by telling you the place and time of the meeting. Goodbye! You had better take your measures, if you are worthy the name of a man! The meeting is fixed for this evening--that's certain." Hippolyte walked towards the door, but the prince called him back and he stopped. "Then you think Aglaya Ivanovna herself intends to go to Nastasia Philipovna's tonight?" he asked, and bright hectic spots came out on his cheeks and forehead. "I don't know absolutely for certain; but in all probability it is so," replied Hippolyte, looking round. "Nastasia would hardly go to her; and they can't meet at Gania's, with a man nearly dead in the house." "It's impossible, for that very reason," said the prince. "How would she get out if she wished to? You don't know the habits of that house--she COULD not get away alone to Nastasia Philipovna's! It's all nonsense!" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 354 "Look here, my dear prince, no one jumps out of the window if they can help it; but when there's a fire, the dandiest gentleman or the finest lady in the world will skip out! When the moment comes, and there's nothing else to be done--our young lady will go to Nastasia Philipovna's! Don't they let the young ladies out of the house alone, then?" "I didn't mean that exactly." "If you didn't mean that, then she has only to go down the steps and walk off, and she need never come back unless she chooses: Ships are burned behind one sometimes, and one doesn't care to return whence one came. Life need not consist only of lunches, and dinners, and Prince S's. It strikes me you take Aglaya Ivanovna for some conventional boarding-school girl. I said so to her, and she quite agreed with me. Wait till seven or eight o'clock. In your place I would send someone there to keep watch, so as to seize the exact moment when she steps out of the house. Send Colia. He'll play the spy with pleasure--for you at least. Ha, ha, ha!" Hippolyte went out. There was no reason for the prince to set anyone to watch, even if he had been capable of such a thing. Aglaya's command that he should stay at home all day seemed almost explained now. Perhaps she meant to call for him, herself, or it might be, of course, that she was anxious to make sure of his not coming there, and therefore bade him remain at home. His head whirled; the whole room seemed to be turning round. He lay down on the sofa, and closed his eyes. One way or the other the question was to be decided at last-- finally. Oh, no, he did not think of Aglaya as a boarding-school miss, or a young lady of the conventional type! He had long since feared that she might take some such step as this. But why did she wish to see Nastasia? He shivered all over as he lay; he was in high fever again. No! he did not account her a child. Certain of her looks, certain of her words, of late, had filled him with apprehension. At times it had struck him that she was putting too great a restraint upon herself, and he remembered that he had been alarmed to observe this. He had tried, all these days, to drive away the heavy thoughts that oppressed him; but what was the hidden mystery of that soul? The question had long tormented him, although he implicitly trusted that soul. And now it was all to be cleared up. It was a dreadful thought. And "that woman" again! Why did he always feel as though "that woman" were fated to appear at each critical moment of his life, and tear the thread of his destiny like a bit of rotten string? That he always HAD felt this he was ready to swear, although he was half delirious at the moment. If he had tried to forget her, all this time, it was simply because he was afraid of her. Did he love the woman or hate her? This question he did not once ask himself today; his heart was quite pure. He knew whom he loved. He was not so much afraid of this meeting, nor of its strangeness, nor of any reasons there might be for it, unknown to himself; he was afraid of the woman herself, Nastasia Philipovna. He remembered, some days afterwards, how during all those fevered hours he had seen but HER eyes, HER look, had heard HER voice, strange words of hers; he remembered that this was so, although he could not recollect the details of his thoughts. He could remember that Vera brought him some dinner, and that he took it; but whether he slept after dinner, or no, he could not recollect. He only knew that he began to distinguish things clearly from the moment when Aglaya suddenly appeared, and he jumped up from the sofa and went to meet her. It was just a quarter past seven then. Aglaya was quite alone, and dressed, apparently hastily, in a light mantle. Her face was pale, as it had been in the morning, and her eyes were ablaze with bright but subdued fire. He had never seen that expression in her by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 355 eyes before. She gazed attentively at him. "You are quite ready, I observe," she said, with absolute composure, "dressed, and your hat in your hand. I see somebody has thought fit to warn you, and I know who. Hippolyte?" "Yes, he told me," said the prince, feeling only half alive. "Come then. You know, I suppose, that you must escort me there? You are well enough to go out, aren't you?" "I am well enough; but is it really possible?--" He broke off abruptly, and could not add another word. This was his one attempt to stop the mad child, and, after he had made it, he followed her as though he had no will of his own. Confused as his thoughts were, he was, nevertheless, capable of realizing the fact that if he did not go with her, she would go alone, and so he must go with her at all hazards. He guessed the strength of her determination; it was beyond him to check it. They walked silently, and said scarcely a word all the way. He only noticed that she seemed to know the road very well; and once, when he thought it better to go by a certain lane, and remarked to her that it would be quieter and less public, she only said, "it's all the same," and went on. When they were almost arrived at Daria Alexeyevna's house (it was a large wooden structure of ancient date), a gorgeously-dressed lady and a young girl came out of it. Both these ladies took their seats in a carriage, which was waiting at the door, talking and laughing loudly the while, and drove away without appearing to notice the approaching couple. No sooner had the carriage driven off than the door opened once more; and Rogojin, who had apparently been awaiting them, let them in and closed it after them. "There is not another soul in the house now excepting our four selves," he said aloud, looking at the prince in a strange way. Nastasia Philipovna was waiting for them in the first room they went into. She was dressed very simply, in black. She rose at their entrance, but did not smile or give her hand, even to the prince. Her anxious eyes were fixed upon Aglaya. Both sat down, at a little distance from one another--Aglaya on the sofa, in the corner of the room, Nastasia by the window. The prince and Rogojin remained standing, and were not invited to sit. Muishkin glanced at Rogojin in perplexity, but the latter only smiled disagreeably, and said nothing. The silence continued for some few moments. An ominous expression passed over Nastasia Philipovna's face, of a sudden. It became obstinate-looking, hard, and full of hatred; but she did not take her eyes off her visitors for a moment. Aglaya was clearly confused, but not frightened. On entering she had merely glanced momentarily at her rival, and then had sat still, with her eyes on the ground, apparently in thought. Once or twice she glanced casually round the room. A shade of disgust was visible in her expression; she looked as though she were afraid of contamination in this place. She mechanically arranged her dress, and fidgeted uncomfortably, eventually changing her seat to the other by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 356 end of the sofa. Probably she was unconscious of her own movements; but this very unconsciousness added to the offensiveness of their suggested meaning. At length she looked straight into Nastasia's eyes, and instantly read all there was to read in her rival's expression. Woman understood woman! Aglaya shuddered. "You know of course why I requested this meeting?" she said at last, quietly, and pausing twice in the delivery of this very short sentence. "No--I know nothing about it," said Nastasia, drily and abruptly. Aglaya blushed. Perhaps it struck her as very strange and impossible that she should really be sitting here and waiting for "that woman's" reply to her question. At the first sound of Nastasia's voice a shudder ran through her frame. Of course "that woman" observed and took in all this. "You know quite well, but you are pretending to be ignorant," said Aglaya, very low, with her eyes on the ground. "Why should I?" asked Nastasia Philipovna, smiling slightly. "You want to take advantage of my position, now that I am in your house," continued Aglaya, awkwardly. "For that position YOU are to blame and not I," said Nastasia, flaring up suddenly. " I did not invite YOU, but you me; and to this moment I am quite ignorant as to why I am thus honoured." Aglaya raised her head haughtily. "Restrain your tongue!" she said. "I did not come here to fight you with your own weapons. "Oh! then you did come 'to fight,' I may conclude? Dear me!--and I thought you were cleverer--" They looked at one another with undisguised malice. One of these women had written to the other, so lately, such letters as we have seen; and it all was dispersed at their first meeting. Yet it appeared that not one of the four persons in the room considered this in any degree strange. The prince who, up to yesterday, would not have believed that he could even dream of such an impossible scene as this, stood and listened and looked on, and felt as though he had long foreseen it all. The most fantastic dream seemed suddenly to have been metamorphosed into the most vivid reality. One of these women so despised the other, and so longed to express her contempt for her (perhaps she had only come for that very purpose, as Rogojin said next day), that howsoever fantastical was the other woman, howsoever afflicted her spirit and disturbed her understanding, no preconceived idea of hers could possibly stand up against that deadly feminine contempt of her rival. The prince felt sure that Nastasia would say nothing about the letters herself; but he could judge by her flashing eyes and the expression of her face what the thought of those letters must be costing her at this moment. He would have given half his life to prevent Aglaya from speaking of them. But Aglaya suddenly braced herself up, and seemed to master herself fully, all in an instant. "You have not quite understood," she said. "I did not come to quarrel with you, though I do not like you. I came to speak to you as... as one human being to another. I came with my mind made up as to what I had to by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 357 say to you, and I shall not change my intention, although you may misunderstand me. So much the worse for you, not for myself! I wished to reply to all you have written to me and to reply personally, because I think that is the more convenient way. Listen to my reply to all your letters. I began to be sorry for Prince Lef Nicolaievitch on the very day I made his acquaintance, and when I heard--afterwards--of all that took place at your house in the evening, I was sorry for him because he was such a simple-minded man, and because he, in the simplicity of his soul, believed that he could be happy with a woman of your character. What I feared actually took place; you could not love him, you tortured him, and threw him over. You could not love him because you are too proud--no, not proud, that is an error; because you are too vain--no, not quite that either; too self-loving; you are self-loving to madness. Your letters to me are a proof of it. You could not love so simple a soul as his, and perhaps in your heart you despised him and laughed at him. All you could love was your shame and the perpetual thought that you were disgraced and insulted. If you were less shameful, or had no cause at all for shame, you would be still more unhappy than you are now. Aglaya brought out these thronging words with great satisfaction. They came from her lips hurriedly and impetuously, and had been prepared and thought out long ago, even before she had ever dreamed of the present meeting. She watched with eagerness the effect of her speech as shown in Nastasia's face, which was distorted with agitation. "You remember," she continued, "he wrote me a letter at that time; he says you know all about that letter and that you even read it. I understand all by means of this letter, and understand it correctly. He has since confirmed it all to me--what I now say to you, word for word. After receiving his letter I waited; I guessed that you would soon come back here, because you could never do without Petersburg; you are still too young and lovely for the provinces. However, this is not my own idea," she added, blushing dreadfully; and from this moment the colour never left her cheeks to the end of her speech. When I next saw the prince I began to feel terribly pained and hurt on his account. Do not laugh; if you laugh you are unworthy of understanding what I say." "Surely you see that I am not laughing," said Nastasia, sadly and sternly. "However, it's all the same to me; laugh or not, just as you please. When I asked him about you, he told me that he had long since ceased to love you, that the very recollection of you was a torture to him, but that he was sorry for you; and that when he thought of you his heart was pierced. I ought to tell you that I never in my life met a man anything like him for noble simplicity of mind and for boundless trustfulness. I guessed that anyone who liked could deceive him, and that he would immediately forgive anyone who did deceive him; and it was for this that I grew to love him--" Aglaya paused for a moment, as though suddenly brought up in astonishment that she could have said these words, but at the same time a great pride shone in her eyes, like a defiant assertion that it would not matter to her if "this woman" laughed in her face for the admission just made. "I have told you all now, and of course you understand what I wish of you." "Perhaps I do; but tell me yourself," said Nastasia Philipovna, quietly. Aglaya flushed up angrily. "I wished to find out from you," she said, firmly, "by what right you dare to meddle with his feelings for me? By what right you dared send me those letters? By what right do you continually remind both me and him that you love him, after you yourself threw him over and ran away from him in so insulting and shameful a way?" "I never told either him or you that I loved him!" replied Nastasia Philipovna, with an effort. "And--and I did run away from him--you are right there," she added, scarcely audibly. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 358 "Never told either him or me?" cried Aglaya. "How about your letters? Who asked you to try to persuade me to marry him? Was not that a declaration from you? Why do you force yourself upon us in this way? I confess I thought at first that you were anxious to arouse an aversion for him in my heart by your meddling, in order that I might give him up; and it was only afterwards that I guessed the truth. You imagined that you were doing an heroic action! How could you spare any love for him, when you love your own vanity to such an extent? Why could you not simply go away from here, instead of writing me those absurd letters? Why do you not NOW marry that generous man who loves you, and has done you the honour of offering you his hand? It is plain enough why; if you marry Rogojin you lose your grievance; you will have nothing more to complain of. You will be receiving too much honour. Evgenie Pavlovitch was saying the other day that you had read too many poems and are too well educated for--your position; and that you live in idleness. Add to this your vanity, and, there you have reason enough--" "And do you not live in idleness?" Things had come to this unexpected point too quickly. Unexpected because Nastasia Philipovna, on her way to Pavlofsk, had thought and considered a good deal, and had expected something different, though perhaps not altogether good, from this interview; but Aglaya had been carried away by her own outburst, just as a rolling stone gathers impetus as it careers downhill, and could not restrain herself in the satisfaction of revenge. It was strange, Nastasia Philipovna felt, to see Aglaya like this. She gazed at her, and could hardly believe her eyes and ears for a moment or two. Whether she were a woman who had read too many poems, as Evgenie Pavlovitch supposed, or whether she were mad, as the prince had assured Aglaya, at all events, this was a woman who, in spite of her occasionally cynical and audacious manner, was far more refined and trustful and sensitive than appeared. There was a certain amount of romantic dreaminess and caprice in her, but with the fantastic was mingled much that was strong and deep. The prince realized this, and great suffering expressed itself in his face. Aglaya observed it, and trembled with anger. "How dare you speak so to me?" she said, with a haughtiness which was quite indescribable, replying to Nastasia's last remark. "You must have misunderstood what I said," said Nastasia, in some surprise. "If you wished to preserve your good name, why did you not give up your--your 'guardian,' Totski, without all that theatrical posturing?" said Aglaya, suddenly a propos of nothing. "What do you know of my position, that you dare to judge me?" cried Nastasia, quivering with rage, and growing terribly white. "I know this much, that you did not go out to honest work, but went away with a rich man, Rogojin, in order to pose as a fallen angel. I don't wonder that Totski was nearly driven to suicide by such a fallen angel." "Silence!" cried Nastasia Philipovna. "You are about as fit to understand me as the housemaid here, who bore witness against her lover in court the other day. She would understand me better than you do." "Probably an honest girl living by her own toil. Why do you speak of a housemaid so contemptuously?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 359 "I do not despise toil; I despise you when you speak of toil." "If you had cared to be an honest woman, you would have gone out as a laundress." Both had risen, and were gazing at one another with pallid faces. "Aglaya, don't! This is unfair," cried the prince, deeply distressed. Rogojin was not smiling now; he sat and listened with folded arms, and lips tight compressed. "There, look at her," cried Nastasia, trembling with passion. "Look at this young lady! And I imagined her an angel! Did you come to me without your governess, Aglaya Ivanovna? Oh, fie, now shall I just tell you why you came here today? Shall I tell you without any embellishments? You came because you were afraid of me!" "Afraid of YOU?" asked Aglaya, beside herself with naive amazement that the other should dare talk to her like this. "Yes, me, of course! Of course you were afraid of me, or you would not have decided to come. You cannot despise one you fear. And to think that I have actually esteemed you up to this very moment! Do you know why you are afraid of me, and what is your object now? You wished to satisfy yourself with your own eyes as to which he loves best, myself or you, because you are fearfully jealous." "He has told me already that he hates you," murmured Aglaya, scarcely audibly. "Perhaps, perhaps! I am not worthy of him, I know. But I think you are lying, all the same. He cannot hate me, and he cannot have said so. I am ready to forgive you, in consideration of your position; but I confess I thought better of you. I thought you were wiser, and more beautiful, too; I did, indeed! Well, take your treasure! See, he is gazing at you, he can't recollect himself. Take him, but on one condition; go away at once, this instant!" She fell back into a chair, and burst into tears. But suddenly some new expression blazed in her eyes. She stared fixedly at Aglaya, and rose from her seat. "Or would you like me to bid him, BID HIM, do you hear, COMMAND HIM, now, at once, to throw you up, and remain mine for ever? Shall I? He will stay, and he will marry me too, and you shall trot home all alone. Shall I?--shall I say the word?" she screamed like a madwoman, scarcely believing herself that she could really pronounce such wild words. Aglaya had made for the door in terror, but she stopped at the threshold, and listened. "Shall I turn Rogojin off? Ha! ha! you thought I would marry him for your benefit, did you? Why, I'll call out NOW, if you like, in your presence, 'Rogojin, get out!' and say to the prince, 'Do you remember what you promised me?' Heavens! what a fool I have been to humiliate myself before them! Why, prince, you yourself gave me your word that you would marry me whatever happened, and would never abandon me. You said you loved me and would forgive me all, and--and resp--yes, you even said that! I only ran away from you in order to set you free, and now I don't care to let you go again. Why does she treat me so-- so shamefully? I am not a loose woman--ask Rogojin there! He'll tell you. Will you go again now that she has insulted me, before your eyes, too; turn away from me and lead her away, arm-in-arm? May you be accursed too, for you were the only one I trusted among them all! Go away, Rogojin, I don't want you," she continued, blind with fury, and forcing the words out with dry lips and distorted features, evidently not believing a single word of her own tirade, but, at the same time, doing her utmost to prolong the moment of self-deception. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 360 The outburst was so terribly violent that the prince thought it would have killed her. "There he is!" she shrieked again, pointing to the prince and addressing Aglaya. "There he is! and if he does not approach me at once and take ME and throw you over, then have him for your own--I give him up to you! I don't want him!" Both she and Aglaya stood and waited as though in expectation, and both looked at the prince like madwomen. But he, perhaps, did not understand the full force of this challenge; in fact, it is certain he did not. All he could see was the poor despairing face which, as he had said to Aglaya, "had pierced his heart for ever." He could bear it no longer, and with a look of entreaty, mingled with reproach, he addressed Aglaya, pointing to Nastasia the while: "How can you?" he murmured; "she is so unhappy." But he had no time to say another word before. Aglaya's terrible look bereft him of speech. In that look was embodied so dreadful a suffering and so deadly a hatred, that he gave a cry and flew to her; but it was too late. She could not hold out long enough even to witness his movement in her direction. She had hidden her face in her hands, cried once " Oh, my God!" and rushed out of the room. Rogojin followed her to undo the bolts of the door and let her out into the street. The prince made a rush after her, but he, was caught and held back. The distorted, livid face of Nastasia gazed at him reproachfully, and her blue lips whispered: "What? Would you go to her--to her?" She fell senseless into his arms. He raised her, carried her into the room, placed her in an arm- chair, and stood over her, stupefied. On the table stood a tumbler of water. Rogojin, who now returned, took this and sprinkled a little in her face. She opened her eyes, but for a moment she understood nothing. Suddenly she looked around, shuddered, gave a loud cry, and threw herself in the prince's arms. "Mine, mine!" she cried. "Has the proud young lady gone? Ha, ha, ha!" she laughed hysterically. "And I had given him up to her! Why--why did I? Mad--mad! Get away, Rogojin! Ha, ha, ha!" Rogojin stared intently at them; then he took his hat, and without a word, left the room. A few moments later, the prince was seated by Nastasia on the sofa, gazing into her eyes and stroking her face and hair, as he would a little child's. He laughed when she laughed, and was ready to cry when she cried. He did not speak, but listened to her excited, disconnected chatter, hardly understanding a word of it the while. No sooner did he detect the slightest appearance of complaining, or weeping, or reproaching, than he would smile at her kindly, and begin stroking her hair and her cheeks, soothing and consoling her once more, as if she were a child. IX. A FORTNIGHT had passed since the events recorded in the last chapter, and the position of the actors in our by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 361 story had become so changed that it is almost impossible for us to continue the tale without some few explanations. Yet we feel that we ought to limit ourselves to the simple record of facts, without much attempt at explanation, for a very patent reason: because we ourselves have the greatest possible difficulty in accounting for the facts to be recorded. Such a statement on our part may appear strange to the reader. How is anyone to tell a story which he cannot understand himself? In order to keep clear of a false position, we had perhaps better give an example of what we mean; and probably the intelligent reader will soon understand the difficulty. More especially are we inclined to take this course since the example will constitute a distinct march forward of our story, and will not hinder the progress of the events remaining to be recorded. During the next fortnight--that is, through the early part of July--the history of our hero was circulated in the form of strange, diverting, most unlikely-sounding stories, which passed from mouth to mouth, through the streets and villas adjoining those inhabited by Lebedeff, Ptitsin, Nastasia Philipovna and the Epanchins; in fact, pretty well through the whole town and its environs. All society--both the inhabitants of the place and those who came down of an evening for the music--had got hold of one and the same story, in a thousand varieties of detail--as to how a certain young prince had raised a terrible scandal in a most respectable household, had thrown over a daughter of the family, to whom he was engaged, and had been captured by a woman of shady reputation whom he was determined to marry at once-- breaking off all old ties for the satisfaction of his insane idea; and, in spite of the public indignation roused by his action, the marriage was to take place in Pavlofsk openly and publicly, and the prince had announced his intention of going through with it with head erect and looking the whole world in the face. The story was so artfully adorned with scandalous details, and persons of so great eminence and importance were apparently mixed up in it, while, at the same time, the evidence was so circumstantial, that it was no wonder the matter gave food for plenty of curiosity and gossip. According to the reports of the most talented gossip-mongers-- those who, in every class of society, are always in haste to explain every event to their neighbours--the young gentleman concerned was of good family--a prince--fairly rich--weak of intellect, but a democrat and a dabbler in the Nihilism of the period, as exposed by Mr. Turgenieff. He could hardly talk Russian, but had fallen in love with one of the Miss Epanchins, and his suit met with so much encouragement that he had been received in the house as the recognized bridegroom-to-be of the young lady. But like the Frenchman of whom the story is told that he studied for holy orders, took all the oaths, was ordained priest, and next morning wrote to his bishop informing him that, as he did not believe in God and considered it wrong to deceive the people and live upon their pockets, he begged to surrender the orders conferred upon him the day before, and to inform his lordship that he was sending this letter to the public press,-- like this Frenchman, the prince played a false game. It was rumoured that he had purposely waited for the solemn occasion of a large evening party at the house of his future bride, at which he was introduced to several eminent persons, in order publicly to make known his ideas and opinions, and thereby insult the "big-wigs," and to throw over his bride as offensively as possible; and that, resisting the servants who were told off to turn him out of the house, he had seized and thrown down a magnificent china vase. As a characteristic addition to the above, it was currently reported that the young prince really loved the lady to whom he was engaged, and had thrown her over out of purely Nihilistic motives, with the intention of giving himself the satisfaction of marrying a fallen woman in the face of all the world, thereby publishing his opinion that there is no distinction between virtuous and disreputable women, but that all women are alike, free; and a "fallen" woman, indeed, somewhat superior to a virtuous one. It was declared that he believed in no classes or anything else, excepting "the woman question." All this looked likely enough, and was accepted as fact by most of the inhabitants of the place, especially as it was borne out, more or less, by daily occurrences. Of course much was said that could not be determined absolutely. For instance, it was reported that the poor girl had so loved her future husband that she had followed him to the house of the other woman, the day after she had been thrown over; others said that he had insisted on her coming, himself, in order to shame and insult by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 362 her by his taunts and Nihilistic confessions when she reached the house. However all these things might be, the public interest in the matter grew daily, especially as it became clear that the scandalous wedding was undoubtedly to take place. So that if our readers were to ask an explanation, not of the wild reports about the prince's Nihilistic opinions, but simply as to how such a marriage could possibly satisfy his real aspirations, or as to the spiritual condition of our hero at this time, we confess that we should have great difficulty in giving the required information. All we know is, that the marriage really was arranged, and that the prince had commissioned Lebedeff and Keller to look after all the necessary business connected with it; that he had requested them to spare no expense; that Nastasia herself was hurrying on the wedding; that Keller was to be the prince's best man, at his own earnest request; and that Burdovsky was to give Nastasia away, to his great delight. The wedding was to take place before the middle of July. But, besides the above, we are cognizant of certain other undoubted facts, which puzzle us a good deal because they seem flatly to contradict the foregoing. We suspect, for instance, that having commissioned Lebedeff and the others, as above, the prince immediately forgot all about masters of ceremonies and even the ceremony itself; and we feel quite certain that in making these arrangements he did so in order that he might absolutely escape all thought of the wedding, and even forget its approach if he could, by detailing all business concerning it to others. What did he think of all this time, then? What did he wish for? There is no doubt that he was a perfectly free agent all through, and that as far as Nastasia was concerned, there was no force of any kind brought to bear on him. Nastasia wished for a speedy marriage, true!--but the prince agreed at once to her proposals; he agreed, in fact, so casually that anyone might suppose he was but acceding to the most simple and ordinary suggestion. There are many strange circumstances such as this before us; but in our opinion they do but deepen the mystery, and do not in the smallest degree help us to understand the case. However, let us take one more example. Thus, we know for a fact that during the whole of this fortnight the prince spent all his days and evenings with Nastasia; he walked with her, drove with her; he began to be restless whenever he passed an hour without seeing her--in fact, to all appearances, he sincerely loved her. He would listen to her for hours at a time with a quiet smile on his face, scarcely saying a word himself. And yet we know, equally certainly, that during this period he several times set off, suddenly, to the Epanchins', not concealing the fact from Nastasia Philipovna, and driving the latter to absolute despair. We know also that he was not received at the Epanchins' so long as they remained at Pavlofsk, and that he was not allowed an interview with Aglaya;--but next day he would set off once more on the same errand, apparently quite oblivious of the fact of yesterday's visit having been a failure,--and, of course, meeting with another refusal. We know, too, that exactly an hour after Aglaya had fled from Nastasia Philipovna's house on that fateful evening, the prince was at the Epanchins',--and that his appearance there had been the cause of the greatest consternation and dismay; for Aglaya had not been home, and the family only discovered then, for the first time, that the two of them had been to Nastasia's house together. It was said that Elizabetha Prokofievna and her daughters had there and then denounced the prince in the strongest terms, and had refused any further acquaintance and friendship with him; their rage and denunciations being redoubled when Varia Ardalionovna suddenly arrived and stated that Aglaya had been at her house in a terrible state of mind for the last hour, and that she refused to come home. This last item of news, which disturbed Lizabetha Prokofievna more than anything else, was perfectly true. On leaving Nastasia's, Aglaya had felt that she would rather die than face her people, and had therefore gone by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 363 straight to Nina Alexandrovna's. On receiving the news, Lizabetha and her daughters and the general all rushed off to Aglaya, followed by Prince Lef Nicolaievitch--undeterred by his recent dismissal; but through Varia he was refused a sight of Aglaya here also. The end of the episode was that when Aglaya saw her mother and sisters crying over her and not uttering a word of reproach, she had flung herself into their arms and gone straight home with them. It was said that Gania managed to make a fool of himself even on this occasion; for, finding himself alone with Aglaya for a minute or two when Varia had gone to the Epanchins', he had thought it a fitting opportunity to make a declaration of his love, and on hearing this Aglaya, in spite of her state of mind at the time, had suddenly burst out laughing, and had put a strange question to him. She asked him whether he would consent to hold his finger to a lighted candle in proof of his devotion! Gania--it was said--looked so comically bewildered that Aglaya had almost laughed herself into hysterics, and had rushed out of the room and upstairs,--where her parents had found her. Hippolyte told the prince this last story, sending for him on purpose. When Muishkin heard about the candle and Gania's finger he had laughed so that he had quite astonished Hippolyte,--and then shuddered and burst into tears. The prince's condition during those days was strange and perturbed. Hippolyte plainly declared that he thought he was out of his mind;--this, however, was hardly to be relied upon. Offering all these facts to our readers and refusing to explain them, we do not for a moment desire to justify our hero's conduct. On the contrary, we are quite prepared to feel our share of the indignation which his behaviour aroused in the hearts of his friends. Even Vera Lebedeff was angry with him for a while; so was Colia; so was Keller, until he was selected for best man; so was Lebedeff himself,--who began to intrigue against him out of pure irritation;--but of this anon. In fact we are in full accord with certain forcible words spoken to the prince by Evgenie Pavlovitch, quite unceremoniously, during the course of a friendly conversation, six or seven days after the events at Nastasia Philipovna's house. We may remark here that not only the Epanchins themselves, but all who had anything to do with them, thought it right to break with the prince in consequence of his conduct. Prince S. even went so far as to turn away and cut him dead in the street. But Evgenie Pavlovitch was not afraid to compromise himself by paying the prince a visit, and did so, in spite of the fact that he had recommenced to visit at the Epanchins', where he was received with redoubled hospitality and kindness after the temporary estrangement. Evgenie called upon the prince the day after that on which the Epanchins left Pavlofsk. He knew of all the current rumours,--in fact, he had probably contributed to them himself. The prince was delighted to see him, and immediately began to speak of the Epanchins;--which simple and straightforward opening quite took Evgenie's fancy, so that he melted at once, and plunged in medias res without ceremony. The prince did not know, up to this, that the Epanchins had left the place. He grew very pale on hearing the news; but a moment later he nodded his head, and said thoughtfully: "I knew it was bound to be so." Then he added quickly: "Where have they gone to?" Evgenie meanwhile observed him attentively, and the rapidity of the questions, their, simplicity, the prince's candour, and at the same time, his evident perplexity and mental agitation, surprised him considerably. However, he told Muishkin all he could, kindly and in detail. The prince hardly knew anything, for this was the first informant from the household whom he had met since the estrangement. Evgenie reported that Aglaya had been really ill, and that for two nights she had not slept at all, owing to high fever; that now she was better and out of serious danger, but still in a nervous, hysterical state. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 364 "It's a good thing that there is peace in the house, at all events," he continued. "They never utter a hint about the past, not only in Aglaya's presence, but even among themselves. The old people are talking of a trip abroad in the autumn, immediately after Adelaida's wedding; Aglaya received the news in silence." Evgenie himself was very likely going abroad also; so were Prince S. and his wife, if affairs allowed of it; the general was to stay at home. They were all at their estate of Colmina now, about twenty miles or so from St. Petersburg. Princess Bielokonski had not returned to Moscow yet, and was apparently staying on for reasons of her own. Lizabetha Prokofievna had insisted that it was quite impossible to remain in Pavlofsk after what had happened. Evgenie had told her of all the rumours current in town about the affair; so that there could be no talk of their going to their house on the Yelagin as yet. "And in point of fact, prince," added Evgenie Pavlovitch, "you must allow that they could hardly have stayed here, considering that they knew of all that went on at your place, and in the face of your daily visits to their house, visits which you insisted upon making in spite of their refusal to see you." "Yes--yes, quite so; you are quite right. I wished to see Aglaya Ivanovna, you know!" said the prince, nodding his head. "Oh, my dear fellow," cried Evgenie, warmly, with real sorrow in his voice, "how could you permit all that to come about as it has? Of course, of course, I know it was all so unexpected. I admit that you, only naturally, lost your head, and--and could not stop the foolish girl; that was not in your power. I quite see so much; but you really should have understood how seriously she cared for you. She could not bear to share you with another; and you could bring yourself to throw away and shatter such a treasure! Oh, prince, prince!" "Yes, yes, you are quite right again," said the poor prince, in anguish of mind. "I was wrong, I know. But it was only Aglaya who looked on Nastasia Philipovna so; no one else did, you know." "But that's just the worst of it all, don't you see, that there was absolutely nothing serious about the matter in reality!" cried Evgenie, beside himself: "Excuse me, prince, but I have thought over all this; I have thought a great deal over it; I know all that had happened before; I know all that took place six months since; and I know there was NOTHING serious about the matter, it was but fancy, smoke, fantasy, distorted by agitation, and only the alarmed jealousy of an absolutely inexperienced girl could possibly have mistaken it for serious reality." Here Evgenie Pavlovitch quite let himself go, and gave the reins to his indignation. Clearly and reasonably, and with great psychological insight, he drew a picture of the prince's past relations with Nastasia Philipovna. Evgenie Pavlovitch always had a ready tongue, but on this occasion his eloquence, surprised himself. "From the very beginning," he said, "you began with a lie; what began with a lie was bound to end with a lie; such is the law of nature. I do not agree, in fact I am angry, when I hear you called an idiot; you are far too intelligent to deserve such an epithet; but you are so far STRANGE as to be unlike others; that you must allow, yourself. Now, I have come to the conclusion that the basis of all that has happened, has been first of all your innate inexperience (remark the expression 'innate,' prince). Then follows your unheard-of simplicity of heart; then comes your absolute want of sense of proportion (to this want you have several times confessed); and lastly, a mass, an accumulation, of intellectual convictions which you, in your unexampled honesty of soul, accept unquestionably as also innate and natural and true. Admit, prince, that in your relations with Nastasia Philipovna there has existed, from the very first, something democratic, and the fascination, so to speak, of the 'woman question'? I know all about that scandalous scene at Nastasia Philipovna's house when Rogojin brought the money, six months ago. I'll show you yourself as in a looking-glass, if you like. I know exactly all that went on, in every detail, and why things have turned out as they have. You thirsted, while in Switzerland, for your home-country, for Russia; you read, doubtless, many books about Russia, excellent books, I dare say, but hurtful to YOU; and you arrived here; as it were, on fire with the longing to be of by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 365 service. Then, on the very day of your arrival, they tell you a sad story of an ill- used woman; they tell YOU, a knight, pure and without reproach, this tale of a poor woman! The same day you actually SEE her; you are attracted by her beauty, her fantastic, almost demoniacal, beauty--(I admit her beauty, of course). "Add to all this your nervous nature, your epilepsy, and your sudden arrival in a strange town--the day of meetings and of exciting scenes, the day of unexpected acquaintanceships, the day of sudden actions, the day of meeting with the three lovely Epanchin girls, and among them Aglaya--add your fatigue, your excitement; add Nastasia' s evening party, and the tone of that party, and--what were you to expect of yourself at such a moment as that?" "Yes, yes, yes!" said the prince, once more, nodding his head, and blushing slightly. "Yes, it was so, or nearly so--I know it. And besides, you see, I had not slept the night before, in the train, or the night before that, either, and I was very tired." "Of course, of course, quite so; that's what I am driving at!" continued Evgenie, excitedly. "It is as clear as possible, and most comprehensible, that you, in your enthusiasm, should plunge headlong into the first chance that came of publicly airing your great idea that you, a prince, and a pure-living man, did not consider a woman disgraced if the sin were not her own, but that of a disgusting social libertine! Oh, heavens! it's comprehensible enough, my dear prince, but that is not the question, unfortunately! The question is, was there any reality and truth in your feelings? Was it nature, or nothing but intellectual enthusiasm? What do you think yourself? We are told, of course, that a far worse woman was FORGIVEN, but we don't find that she was told that she had done well, or that she was worthy of honour and respect! Did not your common-sense show you what was the real state of the case, a few months later? The question is now, not whether she is an innocent woman (I do not insist one way or the other--I do not wish to); but can her whole career justify such intolerable pride, such insolent, rapacious egotism as she has shown? Forgive me, I am too violent, perhaps, but--" "Yes--I dare say it is all as you say; I dare say you are quite right," muttered the prince once more. "She is very sensitive and easily put out, of course; but still, she..." "She is worthy of sympathy? Is that what you wished to say, my good fellow? But then, for the mere sake of vindicating her worthiness of sympathy, you should not have insulted and offended a noble and generous girl in her presence! This is a terrible exaggeration of sympathy! How can you love a girl, and yet so humiliate her as to throw her over for the sake of another woman, before the very eyes of that other woman, when you have already made her a formal proposal of marriage? And you DID propose to her, you know; you did so before her parents and sisters. Can you be an honest man, prince, if you act so? I ask you! And did you not deceive that beautiful girl when you assured her of your love?" "Yes, you are quite right. Oh! I feel that I am very guilty!" said Muishkin, in deepest distress. "But as if that is enough!" cried Evgenie, indignantly. "As if it is enough simply to say: 'I know I am very guilty!' You are to blame, and yet you persevere in evil-doing. Where was your heart, I should like to know, your CHRISTIAN HEART, all that time? Did she look as though she were suffering less, at that moment? You saw her face--was she suffering less than the other woman? How could you see her suffering and allow it to continue? How could you?" "But I did not allow it," murmured the wretched prince. "How--what do you mean you didn't allow?" "Upon my word, I didn't! To this moment I don't know how it all happened. I--I ran after Aglaya Ivanovna, but Nastasia Philipovna fell down in a faint; and since that day they won't let me see Aglaya--that's all I by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 366 know." "It's all the same; you ought to have run after Aglaya though the other was fainting." "Yes, yes, I ought--but I couldn't! She would have died--she would have killed herself. You don't know her; and I should have told Aglaya everything afterwards--but I see, Evgenie Pavlovitch, you don't know all. Tell me now, why am I not allowed to see Aglaya? I should have cleared it all up, you know. Neither of them kept to the real point, you see. I could never explain what I mean to you, but I think I could to Aglaya. Oh! my God, my God! You spoke just now of Aglaya's face at the moment when she ran away. Oh, my God! I remember it! Come along, come along-- quick!" He pulled at Evgenie's coat-sleeve nervously and excitedly, and rose from his chair. "Where to?" "Come to Aglaya--quick, quick!" "But I told you she is not at Pavlofsk. And what would be the use if she were?" "Oh, she'll understand, she'll understand!" cried the prince, clasping his hands. "She would understand that all this is not the point--not a bit the real point--it is quite foreign to the real question." "How can it be foreign? You ARE going to be married, are you not? Very well, then you are persisting in your course. ARE you going to marry her or not?" "Yes, I shall marry her--yes." "Then why is it 'not the point'?" "Oh, no, it is not the point, not a bit. It makes no difference, my marrying her--it means nothing." "How 'means nothing'? You are talking nonsense, my friend. You are marrying the woman you love in order to secure her happiness, and Aglaya sees and knows it. How can you say that it's 'not the point'?" "Her happiness? Oh, no! I am only marrying her--well, because she wished it. It means nothing--it's all the same. She would certainly have died. I see now that that marriage with Rogojin was an insane idea. I understand all now that I did not understand before; and, do you know, when those two stood opposite to one another, I could not bear Nastasia Philipovna's face! You must know, Evgenie Pavlovitch, I have never told anyone before--not even Aglaya--that I cannot bear Nastasia Philipovna's face." (He lowered his voice mysteriously as he said this.) You described that evening at Nastasia Philipovna's (six months since) very accurately just now; but there is one thing which you did not mention, and of which you took no account, because you do not know. I mean her FACE--I looked at her face, you see. Even in the morning when I saw her portrait, I felt that I could not BEAR to look at it. Now, there's Vera Lebedeff, for instance, her eyes are quite different, you know. I'm AFRAID of her face!" he added, with real alarm. "You are AFRAID of it?" "Yes--she's mad!" he whispered, growing pale. "Do you know this for certain?" asked Evgenie, with the greatest curiosity. "Yes, for certain--quite for certain, now! I have discovered it ABSOLUTELY for certain, these last few days." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 367 "What are you doing, then?" cried Evgenie, in horror. "You must be marrying her solely out of FEAR, then! I can't make head or tail of it, prince. Perhaps you don't even love her?" "Oh, no; I love her with all my soul. Why, she is a child! She's a child now--a real child. Oh! you know nothing about it at all, I see." "And are you assured, at the same time, that you love Aglaya too?" "Yes--yes--oh; yes!" "How so? Do you want to make out that you love them BOTH?" "Yes--yes--both! I do!" "Excuse me, prince, but think what you are saying! Recollect yourself!" "Without Aglaya--I--I MUST see Aglaya!--I shall die in my sleep very soon--I thought I was dying in my sleep last night. Oh! if Aglaya only knew all--I mean really, REALLY all! Because she must know ALL--that's the first condition towards understanding. Why cannot we ever know all about another, especially when that other has been guilty? But I don't know what I'm talking about--I'm so confused. You pained me so dreadfully. Surely--surely Aglaya has not the same expression now as she had at the moment when she ran away? Oh, yes! I am guilty and I know it--I know it! Probably I am in fault all round--I don't quite know how--but I am in fault, no doubt. There is something else, but I cannot explain it to you, Evgenie Pavlovitch. I have no words; but Aglaya will understand. I have always believed Aglaya will understand--I am assured she will." "No, prince, she will not. Aglaya loved like a woman, like a human being, not like an abstract spirit. Do you know what, my poor prince? The most probable explanation of the matter is that you never loved either the one or the other in reality." "I don't know--perhaps you are right in much that you have said, Evgenie Pavlovitch. You are very wise, Evgenie Pavlovitch--oh! how my head is beginning to ache again! Come to her, quick--for God's sake, come!" "But I tell you she is not in Pavlofsk! She's in Colmina." "Oh, come to Colmina, then! Come--let us go at once!" "No--no, impossible!" said Evgenie, rising. "Look here--I'll write a letter--take a letter for me!" "No--no, prince; you must forgive me, but I can't undertake any such commissions! I really can't." And so they parted. Evgenie Pavlovitch left the house with strange convictions. He, too, felt that the prince must be out of his mind. "And what did he mean by that FACE--a face which he so fears, and yet so loves? And meanwhile he really may die, as he says, without seeing Aglaya, and she will never know how devotedly he loves her! Ha, ha, ha! How does the fellow manage to love two of them? Two different kinds of love, I suppose! This is very interesting--poor idiot! What on earth will become of him now?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 368 X. THE prince did not die before his wedding--either by day or night, as he had foretold that he might. Very probably he passed disturbed nights, and was afflicted with bad dreams; but, during the daytime, among his fellow-men, he seemed as kind as ever, and even contented; only a little thoughtful when alone. The wedding was hurried on. The day was fixed for exactly a week after Evgenie's visit to the prince. In the face of such haste as this, even the prince's best friends (if he had had any) would have felt the hopelessness of any attempt to save" the poor madman." Rumour said that in the visit of Evgenie Pavlovitch was to be discerned the influence of Lizabetha Prokofievna and her husband... But if those good souls, in the boundless kindness of their hearts, were desirous of saving the eccentric young fellow from ruin, they were unable to take any stronger measures to attain that end. Neither their position, nor their private inclination, perhaps (and only naturally), would allow them to use any more pronounced means. We have observed before that even some of the prince's nearest neighbours had begun to oppose him. Vera Lebedeff's passive disagreement was limited to the shedding of a few solitary tears; to more frequent sitting alone at home, and to a diminished frequency in her visits to the prince's apartments. Colia was occupied with his father at this time. The old man died during a second stroke, which took place just eight days after the first. The prince showed great sympathy in the grief of the family, and during the first days of their mourning he was at the house a great deal with Nina Alexandrovna. He went to the funeral, and it was observable that the public assembled in church greeted his arrival and departure with whisperings, and watched him closely. The same thing happened in the park and in the street, wherever he went. He was pointed out when he drove by, and he often overheard the name of Nastasia Philipovna coupled with his own as he passed. People looked out for her at the funeral, too, but she was not there; and another conspicuous absentee was the captain's widow, whom Lebedeff had prevented from coming. The funeral service produced a great effect on the prince. He whispered to Lebedeff that this was the first time he had ever heard a Russian funeral service since he was a little boy. Observing that he was looking about him uneasily, Lebedeff asked him whom he was seeking. "Nothing. I only thought I--" "Is it Rogojin?" "Why--is he here?" "Yes, he's in church." "I thought I caught sight of his eyes!" muttered the prince, in confusion. "But what of it!--Why is he here? Was he asked?" "Oh, dear, no! Why, they don't even know him! Anyone can come in, you know. Why do you look so amazed? I often meet him; I've seen him at least four times, here at Pavlofsk, within the last week." "I haven't seen him once--since that day!" the prince murmured. As Nastasia Philipovna had not said a word about having met Rogojin since "that day," the prince concluded that the latter had his own reasons for wishing to keep out of sight. All the day of the funeral our hero, was in a deeply thoughtful state, while Nastasia Philipovna was particularly merry, both in the daytime and in the by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 369 evening. Colia had made it up with the prince before his father's death, and it was he who urged him to make use of Keller and Burdovsky, promising to answer himself for the former's behaviour. Nina Alexandrovna and Lebedeff tried to persuade him to have the wedding in St. Petersburg, instead of in the public fashion contemplated, down here at Pavlofsk in the height of the season. But the prince only said that Nastasia Philipovna desired to have it so, though he saw well enough what prompted their arguments. The next day Keller came to visit the prince. He was in a high state of delight with the post of honour assigned to him at the wedding. Before entering he stopped on the threshold, raised his hand as if making a solemn vow, and cried: "I won't drink!" Then he went up to the prince, seized both his hands, shook them warmly, and declared that he had at first felt hostile towards the project of this marriage, and had openly said so in the billiard-rooms, but that the reason simply was that, with the impatience of a friend, he had hoped to see the prince marry at least a Princess de Rohan or de Chabot; but that now he saw that the prince's way of thinking was ten times more noble than that of "all the rest put together." For he desired neither pomp nor wealth nor honour, but only the truth! The sympathies of exalted personages were well known, and the prince was too highly placed by his education, and so on, not to be in some sense an exalted personage! "But all the common herd judge 'differently; in the town, at the meetings, in the villas, at the band, in the inns and the billiard-rooms, the coming event has only to be mentioned and there are shouts and cries from everybody. I have even heard talk of getting up a 'charivari' under the windows on the wedding- night. So if 'you have need of the pistol' of an honest man, prince, I am ready to fire half a dozen shots even before you rise from your nuptial couch!" Keller also advised, in anticipation of the crowd making a rush after the ceremony, that a fire-hose should be placed at the entrance to the house; but Lebedeff was opposed to this measure, which he said might result in the place being pulled down. "I assure you, prince, that Lebedeff is intriguing against you. He wants to put you under control. Imagine that! To take 'from you the use of your free-will and your money--that' is to say, the two things that distinguish us from the animals! I have heard it said positively. It is the sober truth." The prince recollected that somebody had told him something of the kind before, and he had, of course, scoffed at it. He only laughed now, and forgot the hint at once. Lebedeff really had been busy for some little while; but, as usual, his plans had become too complex to succeed, through sheer excess of ardour. When he came to the prince--the very day before the wedding--to confess (for he always confessed to the persons against whom he intrigued, especially when the plan failed), he informed our hero that he himself was a born Talleyrand, but for some unknown reason had become simple Lebedeff. He then proceeded to explain his whole game to the prince, interesting the latter exceedingly. According to Lebedeff's account, he had first tried what he could do with General Epanchin. The latter informed him that he wished well to the unfortunate young man, and would gladly do what he could to "save him," but that he did not think it would be seemly for him to interfere in this matter. Lizabetha Prokofievna would neither hear nor see him. Prince S. and Evgenie Pavlovitch only shrugged their shoulders, and implied that it was no business of theirs. However, Lebedeff had not lost heart, and went off to a clever lawyer,--a worthy and respectable man, whom he knew well. This old gentleman informed him that the thing was by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 370 perfectly feasible if he could get hold of competent witnesses as to Muishkin's mental incapacity. Then, with the assistance of a few influential persons, he would soon see the matter arranged. Lebedeff immediately procured the services of an old doctor, and carried the latter away to Pavlofsk to see the prince, by way of viewing the ground, as it were, and to give him (Lebedeff) counsel as to whether the thing was to be done or not. The visit was not to be official, but merely friendly. Muishkin remembered the doctor's visit quite well. He remembered that Lebedeff had said that he looked ill, and had better see a doctor; and although the prince scouted the idea, Lebedeff had turned up almost immediately with his old friend, explaining that they had just met at the bedside of Hippolyte, who was very ill, and that the doctor had something to tell the prince about the sick man. The prince had, of course, at once received him, and had plunged into a conversation about Hippolyte. He had given the doctor an account of Hippolyte's attempted suicide; and had proceeded thereafter to talk of his own malady,--of Switzerland, of Schneider, and so on; and so deeply was the old man interested by the prince's conversation and his description of Schneider's system, that he sat on for two hours. Muishkin gave him excellent cigars to smoke, and Lebedeff, for his part, regaled him with liqueurs, brought in by Vera, to whom the doctor--a married man and the father of a family--addressed such compliments that she was filled with indignation. They parted friends, and, after leaving the prince, the doctor said to Lebedeff: "If all such people were put under restraint, there would be no one left for keepers." Lebedeff then, in tragic tones, told of the approaching marriage, whereupon the other nodded his head and replied that, after all, marriages like that were not so rare; that he had heard that the lady was very fascinating and of extraordinary beauty, which was enough to explain the infatuation of a wealthy man; that, further, thanks to the liberality of Totski and of Rogojin, she possessed--so he had heard--not only money, but pearls, diamonds, shawls, and furniture, and consequently she could not be considered a bad match. In brief, it seemed to the doctor that the prince's choice, far from being a sign of foolishness, denoted, on the contrary, a shrewd, calculating, and practical mind. Lebedeff had been much struck by this point of view, and he terminated his confession by assuring the prince that he was ready, if need be, to shed his very life's blood for him. Hippolyte, too, was a source of some distraction to the prince at this time; he would send for him at any and every hour of the day. They lived,--Hippolyte and his mother and the children,--in a small house not far off, and the little ones were happy, if only because they were able to escape from the invalid into the garden. The prince had enough to do in keeping the peace between the irritable Hippolyte and his mother, and eventually the former became so malicious and sarcastic on the subject of the approaching wedding, that Muishkin took offence at last, and refused to continue his visits. A couple of days later, however, Hippolyte's mother came with tears in her eyes, and begged the prince to come back, "or HE would eat her up bodily." She added that Hippolyte had a great secret to disclose. Of course the prince went. There was no secret, however, unless we reckon certain pantings and agitated glances around (probably all put on) as the invalid begged his visitor to "beware of Rogojin." "He is the sort of man," he continued,. "who won't give up his object, you know; he is not like you and me, prince--he belongs to quite a different order of beings. If he sets his heart on a thing he won't be afraid of anything--" and so on. Hippolyte was very ill, and looked as though he could not long survive. He was tearful at first, but grew more and more sarcastic and malicious as the interview proceeded. The prince questioned him in detail as to his hints about Rogojin. He was anxious to seize upon some facts which might confirm Hippolyte's vague warnings; but there were none; only Hippolyte's own private impressions and feelings. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 371 However, the invalid--to his immense satisfaction--ended by seriously alarming the prince. At first Muishkin had not cared to make any reply to his sundry questions, and only smiled in response to Hippolyte's advice to "run for his life--abroad, if necessary. There are Russian priests everywhere, and one can get married all over the world." But it was Hippolyte's last idea which upset him. "What I am really alarmed about, though," he said, "is Aglaya Ivanovna. Rogojin knows how you love her. Love for love. You took Nastasia Philipovna from him. He will murder Aglaya Ivanovna; for though she is not yours, of course, now, still such an act would pain you,--wouldn't it?" He had attained his end. The prince left the house beside himself with terror. These warnings about Rogojin were expressed on the day before the wedding. That evening the prince saw Nastasia Philipovna for the last time before they were to meet at the altar; but Nastasia was not in a position to give him any comfort or consolation. On the contrary, she only added to his mental perturbation as the evening went on. Up to this time she had invariably done her best to cheer him--she was afraid of his looking melancholy; she would try singing to him, and telling him every sort of funny story or reminiscence that she could recall. The prince nearly always pretended to be amused, whether he were so actually or no; but often enough he laughed sincerely, delighted by the brilliancy of her wit when she was carried away by her narrative, as she very often was. Nastasia would be wild with joy to see the impression she had made, and to hear his laugh of real amusement; and she would remain the whole evening in a state of pride and happiness. But this evening her melancholy and thoughtfulness grew with every hour. The prince had told Evgenie Pavlovitch with perfect sincerity that he loved Nastasia Philipovna with all his soul. In his love for her there was the sort of tenderness one feels for a sick, unhappy child which cannot be left alone. He never spoke of his feelings for Nastasia to anyone, not even to herself. When they were together they never discussed their "feelings," and there was nothing in their cheerful, animated conversation which an outsider could not have heard. Daria Alexeyevna, with whom Nastasia was staying, told afterwards how she had been filled with joy and delight only to look at them, all this time. Thanks to the manner in which he regarded Nastasia's mental and moral condition, the prince was to some extent freed from other perplexities. She was now quite different from the woman he had known three months before. He was not astonished, for instance, to see her now so impatient to marry him--she who formerly had wept with rage and hurled curses and reproaches at him if he mentioned marriage! "It shows that she no longer fears, as she did then, that she would make me unhappy by marrying me," he thought. And he felt sure that so sudden a change could not be a natural one. This rapid growth of self-confidence could not be due only to her hatred for Aglaya. To suppose that would be to suspect the depth of her feelings. Nor could it arise from dread of the fate that awaited her if she married Rogojin. These causes, indeed, as well as others, might have played a part in it, but the true reason, Muishkin decided, was the one he had long suspected--that the poor sick soul had come to the end of its forces. Yet this was an explanation that did not procure him any peace of mind. At times he seemed to be making violent efforts to think of nothing, and one would have said that he looked on his marriage as an unimportant formality, and on his future happiness as a thing not worth considering. As to conversations such as the one held with Evgenie Pavlovitch, he avoided them as far as possible, feeling that there were certain objections to which he could make no answer. The prince had observed that Nastasia knew well enough what Aglaya was to him. He never spoke of it, but he had seen her face when she had caught him starting off for the Epanchins' house on several occasions. When the Epanchins left Pavlofsk, she had beamed with radiance and happiness. Unsuspicious and unobservant as he was, he had feared at that time that Nastasia might have some scheme in her mind for a scene or scandal which would drive Aglaya out of Pavlofsk. She had encouraged the rumours and excitement by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 372 among the inhabitants of the place as to her marriage with the prince, in order to annoy her rival; and, finding it difficult to meet the Epanchins anywhere, she had, on one occasion, taken him for a drive past their house. He did not observe what was happening until they were almost passing the windows, when it was too late to do anything. He said nothing, but for two days afterwards he was ill. Nastasia did not try that particular experiment again. A few days before that fixed for the wedding, she grew grave and thoughtful. She always ended by getting the better of her melancholy, and becoming merry and cheerful again, but not quite so unaffectedly happy as she had been some days earlier. The prince redoubled his attentive study of her symptoms. It was a most curious circumstance, in his opinion, that she never spoke of Rogojin. But once, about five days before the wedding, when the prince was at home, a messenger arrived begging him to come at once, as Nastasia Philipovna was very ill. He had found her in a condition approaching to absolute madness. She screamed, and trembled, and cried out that Rogojin was hiding out there in the garden--that she had seen him herself--and that he would murder her in the night--that he would cut her throat. She was terribly agitated all day. But it so happened that the prince called at Hippolyte's house later on, and heard from his mother that she had been in town all day, and had there received a visit from Rogojin, who had made inquiries about Pavlofsk. On inquiry, it turned out that Rogojin visited the old lady in town at almost the same moment when Nastasia declared that she had seen him in the garden; so that the whole thing turned out to be an illusion on her part. Nastasia immediately went across to Hippolyte's to inquire more accurately, and returned immensely relieved and comforted. On the day before the wedding, the prince left Nastasia in a state of great animation. Her wedding-dress and all sorts of finery had just arrived from town. Muishkin had not imagined that she would be so excited over it, but he praised everything, and his praise rendered her doubly happy. But Nastasia could not hide the cause of her intense interest in her wedding splendour. She had heard of the indignation in the town, and knew that some of the populace was getting up a sort of charivari with music, that verses had been composed for the occasion, and that the rest of Pavlofsk society more or less encouraged these preparations. So, since attempts were being made to humiliate her, she wanted to hold her head even higher than usual, and to overwhelm them all with the beauty and taste of her toilette. "Let them shout and whistle, if they dare!" Her eyes flashed at the thought. But, underneath this, she had another motive, of which she did not speak. She thought that possibly Aglaya, or at any rate someone sent by her, would be present incognito at the ceremony, or in the crowd, and she wished to be prepared for this eventuality. The prince left her at eleven, full of these thoughts, and went home. But it was not twelve o'clock when a messenger came to say that Nastasia was very bad, and he must come at once. On hurrying back he found his bride locked up in her own room and could hear her hysterical cries and sobs. It was some time before she could be made to hear that the prince had come, and then she opened the door only just sufficiently to let him in, and immediately locked it behind him. She then fell on her knees at his feet. (So at least Dana Alexeyevna reported.) "What am I doing? What am I doing to you?" she sobbed convulsively, embracing his knees. The prince was a whole hour soothing and comforting her, and left her, at length, pacified and composed. He sent another messenger during the night to inquire after her, and two more next morning. The last brought back a message that Nastasia was surrounded by a whole army of dressmakers and maids, and was as happy and as busy as such a beauty should be on her wedding morning, and that there was not a vestige of yesterday's agitation remaining. The message concluded with the news that at the moment of the bearer's departure there was a great confabulation in progress as to which diamonds were to be worn, and how. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 373 This message entirely calmed the prince's mind. The following report of the proceedings on the wedding day may be depended upon, as coming from eye-witnesses. The wedding was fixed for eight o'clock in the evening. Nastasia Philipovna was ready at seven. From six o'clock groups of people began to gather at Nastasia's house, at the prince's, and at the church door, but more especially at the former place. The church began to fill at seven. Colia and Vera Lebedeff were very anxious on the prince's account, but they were so busy over the arrangements for receiving the guests after the wedding, that they had not much time for the indulgence of personal feelings. There were to be very few guests besides the best men and so on; only Dana Alexeyevna, the Ptitsins, Gania, and the doctor. When the prince asked Lebedeff why he had invited the doctor, who was almost a stranger, Lebedeff replied: "Why, he wears an 'order,' and it looks so well!" This idea amused the prince. Keller and Burdovsky looked wonderfully correct in their dress- coats and white kid gloves, although Keller caused the bridegroom some alarm by his undisguisedly hostile glances at the gathering crowd of sight-seers outside. At about half-past seven the prince started for the church in his carriage. We may remark here that he seemed anxious not to omit a single one of the recognized customs and traditions observed at weddings. He wished all to be done as openly as possible, and "in due order." Arrived at the church, Muishkin, under Keller's guidance, passed through the crowd of spectators, amid continuous whispering and excited exclamations. The prince stayed near the altar, while Keller made off once more to fetch the bride. On reaching the gate of Daria Alexeyevna's house, Keller found a far denser crowd than he had encountered at the prince's. The remarks and exclamations of the spectators here were of so irritating a nature that Keller was very near making them a speech on the impropriety of their conduct, but was luckily caught by Burdovsky, in the act of turning to address them, and hurried indoors. Nastasia Philipovna was ready. She rose from her seat, looked into the glass and remarked, as Keller told the tale afterwards, that she was "as pale as a corpse." She then bent her head reverently, before the ikon in the corner, and left the room. A torrent of voices greeted her appearance at the front door. The crowd whistled, clapped its hands, and laughed and shouted; but in a moment or two isolated voices were distinguishable. "What a beauty!" cried one. "Well, she isn't the first in the world, nor the last," said another. "Marriage covers everything," observed a third. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 374 "I defy you to find another beauty like that," said a fourth. "She's a real princess! I'd sell my soul for such a princess as that!" Nastasia came out of the house looking as white as any handkerchief; but her large dark eyes shone upon the vulgar crowd like blazing coals. The spectators' cries were redoubled, and became more exultant and triumphant every moment. The door of the carriage was open, and Keller had given his hand to the bride to help her in, when suddenly with a loud cry she rushed from him, straight into the surging crowd. Her friends about her were stupefied with amazement; the crowd parted as she rushed through it, and suddenly, at a distance of five or six yards from the carriage, appeared Rogojin. It was his look that had caught her eyes. Nastasia rushed to him like a madwoman, and seized both his hands. "Save me!" she cried. "Take me away, anywhere you like, quick!" Rogojin seized her in his arms and almost carried her to the carriage. Then, in a flash, he tore a hundred-rouble note out of his pocket and held it to the coachman. "To the station, quick! If you catch the train you shall have another. Quick!" He leaped into the carriage after Nastasia and banged the door. The coachman did not hesitate a moment; he whipped up the horses, and they were oft. "One more second and I should have stopped him," said Keller, afterwards. In fact, he and Burdovsky jumped into another carriage and set off in pursuit; but it struck them as they drove along that it was not much use trying to bring Nastasia back by force. "Besides," said Burdovsky," the prince would not like it, would he?" So they gave up the pursuit. Rogojin and Nastasia Philipovna reached the station just in time for the train. As he jumped out of the carriage and was almost on the point of entering the train, Rogojin accosted a young girl standing on the platform and wearing an old-fashioned, but respectable-looking, black cloak and a silk handkerchief over her head. "Take fifty roubles for your cloak?" he shouted, holding the money out to the girl. Before the astonished young woman could collect her scattered senses, he pushed the money into her hand, seized the mantle, and threw it and the handkerchief over Nastasia's head and shoulders. The latter's wedding-array would have attracted too much attention, and it was not until some time later that the girl understood why her old cloak and kerchief had been bought at such a price. The news of what had happened reached the church with extraordinary rapidity. When Keller arrived, a host of people whom he did not know thronged around to ask him questions. There was much excited talking, and shaking of heads, even some laughter; but no one left the church, all being anxious to observe how the now celebrated bridegroom would take the news. He grew very pale upon hearing it, but took it quite quietly. "I was afraid," he muttered, scarcely audibly, "but I hardly thought it would come to this." Then after a short silence, he added: "However, in her state, it is quite consistent with the natural order of things." Even Keller admitted afterwards that this was "extraordinarily philosophical" on the prince's part. He left the church quite calm, to all appearances, as many witnesses were found to declare afterwards. He seemed anxious to reach home and be left alone as quickly as possible; but this was not to be. He was accompanied by nearly all the invited guests, and besides this, the house was almost besieged by excited bands of people, who insisted upon being allowed to enter the verandah. The prince heard Keller and Lebedeff remonstrating and by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 375 quarrelling with these unknown individuals, and soon went out himself. He approached the disturbers of his peace, requested courteously to be told what was desired; then politely putting Lebedeff and Keller aside, he addressed an old gentleman who was standing on the verandah steps at the head of the band of would-be guests, and courteously requested him to honour him with a visit. The old fellow was quite taken aback by this, but entered, followed by a few more, who tried to appear at their ease. The rest remained outside, and presently the whole crowd was censuring those who had accepted the invitation. The prince offered seats to his strange visitors, tea was served, and a general conversation sprang up. Everything was done most decorously, to the considerable surprise of the intruders. A few tentative attempts were made to turn the conversation to the events of the day, and a few indiscreet questions were asked; but Muishkin replied to everybody with such simplicity and good-humour, and at the same time with so much dignity, and showed such confidence in the good breeding of his guests, that the indiscreet talkers were quickly silenced. By degrees the conversation became almost serious. One gentleman suddenly exclaimed, with great vehemence: "Whatever happens, I shall not sell my property; I shall wait. Enterprise is better than money, and there, sir, you have my whole system of economy, if you wish!" He addressed the prince, who warmly commended his sentiments, though Lebedeff whispered in his ear that this gentleman, who talked so much of his "property," had never had either house or home. Nearly an hour passed thus, and when tea was over the visitors seemed to think that it was time to go. As they went out, the doctor and the old gentleman bade Muishkin a warm farewell, and all the rest took their leave with hearty protestations of good- will, dropping remarks to the effect that "it was no use worrying," and that "perhaps all would turn out for the best," and so on. Some of the younger intruders would have asked for champagne, but they were checked by the older ones. When all had departed, Keller leaned over to Lebedeff, and said: "With you and me there would have been a scene. We should have shouted and fought, and called in the police. But he has simply made some new friends--and such friends, too! I know them!" Lebedeff, who was slightly intoxicated, answered with a sigh: "Things are hidden from the wise and prudent, and revealed unto babes. I have applied those words to him before, but now I add that God has preserved the babe himself from the abyss, He and all His saints." At last, about half-past ten, the prince was left alone. His head ached. Colia was the last to go, after having helped him to change his wedding clothes. They parted on affectionate terms, and, without speaking of what had happened, Colia promised to come very early the next day. He said later that the prince had given no hint of his intentions when they said good-bye, but had hidden them even from him. Soon there was hardly anyone left in the house. Burdovsky had gone to see Hippolyte; Keller and Lebedeff had wandered off together somewhere. Only Vera Lebedeff remained hurriedly rearranging the furniture in the rooms. As she left the verandah, she glanced at the prince. He was seated at the table, with both elbows upon it, and his head resting on his hands. She approached him, and touched his shoulder gently. The prince started and looked at her in perplexity; he seemed to be collecting his senses for a minute or so, before he could remember where he was. As recollection dawned upon him, he became violently agitated. All he did, however, was to ask Vera very earnestly to knock at his door and awake him in time for the first train to Petersburg next morning. Vera promised, and the prince entreated her not to tell anyone of his intention. She promised this, too; and at last, when she had half-closed the door, be called her back a third time, took her hands in his, kissed them, then kissed her forehead, and in a rather peculiar manner said to her, "Until tomorrow!" Such was Vera's story afterwards. She went away in great anxiety about him, but when she saw him in the morning, he seemed to be quite by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 376 himself again, greeted her with a smile, and told her that he would very likely be back by the evening. It appears that he did not consider it necessary to inform anyone excepting Vera of his departure for town. XI. AN hour later he was in St. Petersburg, and by ten o'clock he had rung the bell at Rogojin's. He had gone to the front door, and was kept waiting a long while before anyone came. At last the door of old Mrs. Rogojin's flat was opened, and an aged servant appeared. "Parfen Semionovitch is not at home," she announced from the doorway. "Whom do you want?" "Parfen Semionovitch." "He is not in." The old woman examined the prince from head to foot with great curiosity. "At all events tell me whether he slept at home last night, and whether he came alone?" The old woman continued to stare at him, but said nothing. "Was not Nastasia Philipovna here with him, yesterday evening?" "And, pray, who are you yourself?" "Prince Lef Nicolaievitch Muishkin; he knows me well." "He is not at home." The woman lowered her eyes. "And Nastasia Philipovna?" "I know nothing about it." "Stop a minute! When will he come back?" "I don't know that either." The door was shut with these words, and the old woman disappeared. The prince decided to come back within an hour. Passing out of the house, he met the porter. "Is Parfen Semionovitch at home?" he asked. "Yes." "Why did they tell me he was not at home, then?" "Where did they tell you so,--at his door?" "No, at his mother's flat; I rang at Parfen Semionovitch's door and nobody came." "Well, he may have gone out. I can't tell. Sometimes he takes the keys with him, and leaves the rooms empty for two or three days." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 377 "Do you know for certain that he was at home last night?" "Yes, he was." "Was Nastasia Philipovna with him?" "I don't know; she doesn't come often. I think I should have known if she had come." The prince went out deep in thought, and walked up and down the pavement for some time. The windows of all the rooms occupied by Rogojin were closed, those of his mother's apartments were open. It was a hot, bright day. The prince crossed the road in order to have a good look at the windows again; not only were Rogojin's closed, but the white blinds were all down as well. He stood there for a minute and then, suddenly and strangely enough, it seemed to him that a little corner of one of the blinds was lifted, and Rogojin's face appeared for an instant and then vanished. He waited another minute, and decided to go and ring the bell once more; however, he thought better of it again and put it off for an hour. The chief object in his mind at this moment was to get as quickly as he could to Nastasia Philipovna's lodging. He remembered that, not long since, when she had left Pavlofsk at his request, he had begged her to put up in town at the house of a respectable widow, who had well-furnished rooms to let, near the Ismailofsky barracks. Probably Nastasia had kept the rooms when she came down to Pavlofsk this last time; and most likely she would have spent the night in them, Rogojin having taken her straight there from the station. The prince took a droshky. It struck him as he drove on that he ought to have begun by coming here, since it was most improbable that Rogojin should have taken Nastasia to his own house last night. He remembered that the porter said she very rarely came at all, so that it was still less likely that she would have gone there so late at night. Vainly trying to comfort himself with these reflections, the prince reached the Ismailofsky barracks more dead than alive. To his consternation the good people at the lodgings had not only heard nothing of Nastasia, but all came out to look at him as if he were a marvel of some sort. The whole family, of all ages, surrounded him, and he was begged to enter. He guessed at once that they knew perfectly well who he was, and that yesterday ought to have been his wedding-day; and further that they were dying to ask about the wedding, and especially about why he should be here now, inquiring for the woman who in all reasonable human probability might have been expected to be with him in Pavlofsk. He satisfied their curiosity, in as few words as possible, with regard to the wedding, but their exclamations and sighs were so numerous and sincere that he was obliged to tell the whole story-- in a short form, of course. The advice of all these agitated ladies was that the prince should go at once and knock at Rogojin's until he was let in: and when let in insist upon a substantial explanation of everything. If Rogojin was really not at home, the prince was advised to go to a certain house, the address of which was given, where lived a German lady, a friend of Nastasia Philipovna's. It was possible that she might have spent the night there in her anxiety to conceal herself. The prince rose from his seat in a condition of mental collapse. The good ladies reported afterwards that "his pallor was terrible to see, and his legs seemed to give way underneath him." With difficulty he was made to understand that his new friends would be glad of his address, in order to act with him if possible. After a moment's thought he gave the address of the small hotel, on the stairs of which he had had a fit some five weeks since. He then set off once more for Rogojin's. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 378 This time they neither opened the door at Rogojin's flat nor at the one opposite. The prince found the porter with difficulty, but when found, the man would hardly look at him or answer his questions, pretending to be busy. Eventually, however, he was persuaded to reply so far as to state that Rogojin had left the house early in the morning and gone to Pavlofsk, and that he would not return today at all. "I shall wait; he may come back this evening." "He may not be home for a week." "Then, at all events, he DID sleep here, did he?" "Well--he did sleep here, yes." All this was suspicious and unsatisfactory. Very likely the porter had received new instructions during the interval of the prince's absence; his manner was so different now. He had been obliging--now he was as obstinate and silent as a mule. However, the prince decided to call again in a couple of hours, and after that to watch the house, in case of need. His hope was that he might yet find Nastasia at the address which he had just received. To that address he now set off at full speed. But alas! at the German lady's house they did not even appear to understand what he wanted. After a while, by means of certain hints, he was able to gather that Nastasia must have had a quarrel with her friend two or three weeks ago, since which date the latter had neither heard nor seen anything of her. He was given to understand that the subject of Nastasia's present whereabouts was not of the slightest interest to her; and that Nastasia might marry all the princes in the world for all she cared! So Muishkin took his leave hurriedly. It struck him now that she might have gone away to Moscow just as she had done the last time, and that Rogojin had perhaps gone after her, or even WITH her. If only he could find some trace! However, he must take his room at the hotel; and he started off in that direction. Having engaged his room, he was asked by the waiter whether he would take dinner; replying mechanically in the affirmative, he sat down and waited; but it was not long before it struck him that dining would delay him. Enraged at this idea, he started up, crossed the dark passage (which filled him with horrible impressions and gloomy forebodings), and set out once more for Rogojin's. Rogojin had not returned, and no one came to the door. He rang at the old lady's door opposite, and was informed that Parfen Semionovitch would not return for three days. The curiosity with which the old servant stared at him again impressed the prince disagreeably. He could not find the porter this time at all. As before, he crossed the street and watched the windows from the other side, walking up and down in anguish of soul for half an hour or so in the stifling heat. Nothing stirred; the blinds were motionless; indeed, the prince began to think that the apparition of Rogojin's face could have been nothing but fancy. Soothed by this thought, he drove off once more to his friends at the Ismailofsky barracks. He was expected there. The mother had already been to three or four places to look for Nastasia, but had not found a trace of any kind. The prince said nothing, but entered the room, sat down silently, and stared at them, one after the other, with the air of a man who cannot understand what is being said to him. It was strange-- one moment he seemed to be so observant, the next so absent; his behaviour struck all the family as most remarkable. At length he rose from his seat, and begged to be shown Nastasia's rooms. The ladies reported afterwards how he had examined everything in the apartments. He observed an open book on the table, Madam Bovary, and requested the leave of the lady of the house to take it with him. He had turned down the leaf at the open page, and pocketed it before they could explain that it was a library book. He had then seated himself by the open window, and seeing a card-table, he asked who played cards. He was informed that Nastasia used to play with Rogojin every evening, either at "preference" or "little fool," by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 379 or "whist"; that this had been their practice since her last return from Pavlofsk; that she had taken to this amusement because she did not like to see Rogojin sitting silent and dull for whole evenings at a time; that the day after Nastasia had made a remark to this effect, Rogojin had whipped a pack of cards out of his pocket. Nastasia had laughed, but soon they began playing. The prince asked where were the cards, but was told that Rogojin used to bring a new pack every day, and always carried it away in his pocket. The good ladies recommended the prince to try knocking at Rogojin's once more--not at once, but in the evening Meanwhile, the mother would go to Pavlofsk to inquire at Dana Alexeyevna's whether anything had been heard of Nastasia there. The prince was to come back at ten o'clock and meet her, to hear her news and arrange plans for the morrow. In spite of the kindly-meant consolations of his new friends, the prince walked to his hotel in inexpressible anguish of spirit, through the hot, dusty streets, aimlessly staring at the faces of those who passed him. Arrived at his destination, he determined to rest awhile in his room before be started for Rogojin's once more. He sat down, rested his elbows on the table and his head on his hands, and fell to thinking. Heaven knows how long and upon what subjects he thought. He thought of many things--of Vera Lebedeff, and of her father; of Hippolyte; of Rogojin himself, first at the funeral, then as he had met him in the park, then, suddenly, as they had met in this very passage, outside, when Rogojin had watched in the darkness and awaited him with uplifted knife. The prince remembered his enemy's eyes as they had glared at him in the darkness. He shuddered, as a sudden idea struck him. This idea was, that if Rogojin were in Petersburg, though he might hide for a time, yet he was quite sure to come to him--the prince--before long, with either good or evil intentions, but probably with the same intention as on that other occasion. At all events, if Rogojin were to come at all he would be sure to seek the prince here--he had no other town address--perhaps in this same corridor; he might well seek him here if he needed him. And perhaps he did need him. This idea seemed quite natural to the prince, though he could not have explained why he should so suddenly have become necessary to Rogojin. Rogojin would not come if all were well with him, that was part of the thought; he would come if all were not well; and certainly, undoubtedly, all would not be well with him. The prince could not bear this new idea; he took his hat and rushed out towards the street. It was almost dark in the passage. "What if he were to come out of that corner as I go by and--and stop me?" thought the prince, as he approached the familiar spot. But no one came out. He passed under the gateway and into the street. The crowds of people walking about--as is always the case at sunset in Petersburg, during the summer--surprised him, but he walked on in the direction of Rogojin's house. About fifty yards from the hotel, at the first cross-road, as he passed through the crowd of foot-passengers sauntering along, someone touched his shoulder, and said in a whisper into his ear: "Lef Nicolaievitch, my friend, come along with me." It was Rogojin. The prince immediately began to tell him, eagerly and joyfully, how he had but the moment before expected to see him in the dark passage of the hotel. "I was there," said Rogojin, unexpectedly. "Come along." The prince was surprised at this answer; but his astonishment increased a couple of minutes afterwards, when he began to consider it. Having thought it over, he glanced at Rogojin in alarm. The latter was striding along a yard or so ahead, looking straight in front of him, and mechanically making way for anyone he met. "Why did you not ask for me at my room if you were in the hotel?" asked the prince, suddenly. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 380 Rogojin stopped and looked at him; then reflected, and replied as though he had not heard the question: "Look here, Lef Nicolaievitch, you go straight on to the house; I shall walk on the other side. See that we keep together." So saying, Rogojin crossed the road. Arrived on the opposite pavement, he looked back to see whether the prince were moving, waved his hand in the direction of the Gorohovaya, and strode on, looking across every moment to see whether Muishkin understood his instructions. The prince supposed that Rogojin desired to look out for someone whom he was afraid to miss; but if so, why had he not told HIM whom to look out for? So the two proceeded for half a mile or so. Suddenly the prince began to tremble from some unknown cause. He could not bear it, and signalled to Rogojin across the road. The latter came at once. "Is Nastasia Philipovna at your house?" "Yes." "And was it you looked out of the window under the blind this morning?" "Yes." "Then why did--" But the prince could not finish his question; he did not know what to say. Besides this, his heart was beating so that he found it difficult to speak at all. Rogojin was silent also and looked at him as before, with an expression of deep thoughtfulness. "Well, I'm going," he said, at last, preparing to recross the road. "You go along here as before; we will keep to different sides of the road; it's better so, you'll see." When they reached the Gorohovaya, and came near the house, the prince's legs were trembling so that he could hardly walk. It was about ten o'clock. The old lady's windows were open, as before; Rogojin's were all shut, and in the darkness the white blinds showed whiter than ever. Rogojin and the prince each approached the house on his respective side of the road; Rogojin, who was on the near side, beckoned the prince across. He went over to the doorway. "Even the porter does not know that I have come home now. I told him, and told them at my mother's too, that I was off to Pavlofsk," said Rogojin, with a cunning and almost satisfied smile. "We'll go in quietly and nobody will hear us." He had the key in his hand. Mounting the staircase he turned and signalled to the prince to go more softly; he opened the door very quietly, let the prince in, followed him, locked the door behind him, and put the key in his pocket. "Come along," he whispered. He had spoken in a whisper all the way. In spite of his apparent outward composure, he was evidently in a state of great mental agitation. Arrived in a large salon, next to the study, he went to the window and cautiously beckoned the prince up to him. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 381 "When you rang the bell this morning I thought it must be you. I went to the door on tip-toe and heard you talking to the servant opposite. I had told her before that if anyone came and rang-- especially you, and I gave her your name--she was not to tell about me. Then I thought, what if he goes and stands opposite and looks up, or waits about to watch the house? So I came to this very window, looked out, and there you were staring straight at me. That's how it came about." "Where is Nastasia Philipovna?" asked the prince, breathlessly. "She's here," replied Rogojin, slowly, after a slight pause. "Where?" Rogojin raised his eyes and gazed intently at the prince. "Come," he said. He continued to speak in a whisper, very deliberately as before, and looked strangely thoughtful and dreamy. Even while he told the story of how he had peeped through the blind, he gave the impression of wishing to say something else. They entered the study. In this room some changes had taken place since the prince last saw it. It was now divided into two equal parts by a heavy green silk curtain stretched across it, separating the alcove beyond, where stood Rogojin's bed, from the rest of the room. The heavy curtain was drawn now, and it was very dark. The bright Petersburg summer nights were already beginning to close in, and but for the full moon, it would have been difficult to distinguish anything in Rogojin's dismal room, with the drawn blinds. They could just see one anothers faces, however, though not in detail. Rogojin's face was white, as usual. His glittering eyes watched the prince with an intent stare. "Had you not better light a candle?" said Muishkin. "No, I needn't," replied Rogojin, and taking the other by the hand he drew him down to a chair. He himself took a chair opposite and drew it up so close that he almost pressed against the prince's knees. At their side was a little round table. Sit down," said Rogojin; "let's rest a bit." There was silence for a moment. "I knew you would be at that hotel," he continued, just as men sometimes commence a serious conversation by discussing any outside subject before leading up to the main point. "As I entered the passage it struck me that perhaps you were sitting and waiting for me, just as I was waiting for you. Have you been to the old lady at Ismailofsky barracks?" "Yes," said the prince, squeezing the word out with difficulty owing to the dreadful beating of his heart. "I thought you would. 'They'll talk about it,' I thought; so I determined to go and fetch you to spend the night here--'We will be together,' I thought, 'for this one night--'" "Rogojin, WHERE is Nastasia Philipovna?" said the prince, suddenly rising from his seat. He was quaking in all his limbs, and his words came in a scarcely audible whisper. Rogojin rose also. "There," he whispered, nodding his head towards the curtain. "Asleep?" whispered the prince. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 382 Rogojin looked intently at him again, as before. "Let's go in--but you mustn't--well--let's go in." He lifted the curtain, paused--and turned to the prince. "Go in," he said, motioning him to pass behind the curtain. Muishkin went in. It's so dark," he said. "You can see quite enough," muttered Rogojin. "I can just see there's a bed--" "Go nearer," suggested Rogojin, softly. The prince took a step forward--then another--and paused. He stood and stared for a minute or two. Neither of the men spoke a word while at the bedside. The prince's heart beat so loud that its knocking seemed to be distinctly audible in the deathly silence. But now his eyes had become so far accustomed to the darkness that he could distinguish the whole of the bed. Someone was asleep upon it--in an absolutely motionless sleep. Not the slightest movement was perceptible, not the faintest breathing could be heard. The sleeper was covered with a white sheet; the outline of the limbs was hardly distinguishable. He could only just make out that a human being lay outstretched there. All around, on the bed, on a chair beside it, on the floor, were scattered the different portions of a magnificent white silk dress, bits of lace, ribbons and flowers. On a small table at the bedside glittered a mass of diamonds, torn off and thrown down anyhow. From under a heap of lace at the end of the bed peeped a small white foot, which looked as though it had been chiselled out of marble; it was terribly still. The prince gazed and gazed, and felt that the more he gazed the more death-like became the silence. Suddenly a fly awoke somewhere, buzzed across the room, and settled on the pillow. The prince shuddered. "Let's go," said Rogojin, touching his shoulder. They left the alcove and sat down in the two chairs they had occupied before, opposite to one another. The prince trembled more and more violently, and never took his questioning eyes off Rogojin's face. "I see you are shuddering, Lef Nicolaievitch," said the latter, at length, "almost as you did once in Moscow, before your fit; don't you remember? I don't know what I shall do with you--" The prince bent forward to listen, putting all the strain he could muster upon his understanding in order to take in what Rogojin said, and continuing to gaze at the latter's face. "Was it you?" he muttered, at last, motioning with his head towards the curtain. "Yes, it was I," whispered Rogojin, looking down. Neither spoke for five minutes. "Because, you know," Rogojin recommenced, as though continuing a former sentence, "if you were ill now, or had a fit, or screamed, or anything, they might hear it in the yard, or even in the street, and guess that by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 383 someone was passing the night in the house. They would all come and knock and want to come in, because they know I am not at home. I didn't light a candle for the same reason. When I am not here--for two or three days at a time, now and then--no one comes in to tidy the house or anything; those are my orders. So that I want them to not know we are spending the night here--" "Wait," interrupted the prince. "I asked both the porter and the woman whether Nastasia Philipovna had spent last night in the house; so they knew--" "I know you asked. I told them that she had called in for ten minutes, and then gone straight back to Pavlofsk. No one knows she slept here. Last night we came in just as carefully as you and I did today. I thought as I came along with her that she would not like to creep in so secretly, but I was quite wrong. She whispered, and walked on tip-toe; she carried her skirt over her arm, so that it shouldn't rustle, and she held up her finger at me on the stairs, so that I shouldn't make a noise--it was you she was afraid of. She was mad with terror in the train, and she begged me to bring her to this house. I thought of taking her to her rooms at the Ismailofsky barracks first; but she wouldn't hear of it. She said, 'No--not there; he'll find me out at once there. Take me to your own house, where you can hide me, and tomorrow we'll set off for Moscow.' Thence she would go to Orel, she said. When she went to bed, she was still talking about going to Orel." "Wait! What do you intend to do now, Parfen?" "Well, I'm afraid of you. You shudder and tremble so. We'll pass the night here together. There are no other beds besides that one; but I've thought how we'll manage. I'll take the cushions off all the sofas, and lay them down on the floor, up against the curtain here--for you and me--so that we shall be together. For if they come in and look about now, you know, they'll find her, and carry her away, and they'll be asking me questions, and I shall say I did it, and then they'll take me away, too, don't you see? So let her lie close to us--close to you and me. "Yes, yes," agreed the prince, warmly. "So we will not say anything about it, or let them take her away?" "Not for anything!" cried the other; "no, no, no!" "So I had decided, my friend; not to give her up to anyone," continued Rogojin. "We'll be very quiet. I have only been out of the house one hour all day, all the rest of the time I have been with her. I dare say the air is very bad here. It is so hot. Do you find it bad?" "I don't know--perhaps--by morning it will be." "I've covered her with oil-cloth--best American oilcloth, and put the sheet over that, and four jars of disinfectant, on account of the smell--as they did at Moscow--you remember? And she's lying so still; you shall see, in the morning, when it's light. What! can't you get up?" asked Rogojin, seeing the other was trembling so that he could not rise from his seat. "My legs won't move," said the prince; "it's fear, I know. When my fear is over, I'll get up--" "Wait a bit--I'll make the bed, and you can lie down. I'll lie down, too, and we'll listen and watch, for I don't know yet what I shall do... I tell you beforehand, so that you may be ready in case I--" Muttering these disconnected words, Rogojin began to make up the beds. It was clear that he had devised these beds long before; last night he slept on the sofa. But there was no room for two on the sofa, and he seemed anxious that he and the prince should be close to one another; therefore, he now dragged cushions of by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 384 all sizes and shapes from the sofas, and made a sort of bed of them close by the curtain. He then approached the prince, and gently helped him to rise, and led him towards the bed. But the prince could now walk by himself, so that his fear must have passed; for all that, however, he continued to shudder. "It's hot weather, you see," continued Rogojin, as he lay down on the cushions beside Muishkin, "and, naturally, there will be a smell. I daren't open the window. My mother has some beautiful flowers in pots; they have a delicious scent; I thought of fetching them in, but that old servant will find out, she's very inquisitive. "Yes, she is inquisitive," assented the prince. "I thought of buying flowers, and putting them all round her; but I was afraid it would make us sad to see her with flowers round her." "Look here," said the prince; he was bewildered, and his brain wandered. He seemed to be continually groping for the questions he wished to ask, and then losing them. "Listen--tell me--how did you--with a knife?--That same one?" "Yes, that same one." "Wait a minute, I want to ask you something else, Parfen; all sorts of things; but tell me first, did you intend to kill her before my wedding, at the church door, with your knife?" "I don't know whether I did or not," said Rogojin, drily, seeming to be a little astonished at the question, and not quite taking it in. "Did you never take your knife to Pavlofsk with you?" "No. As to the knife," he added, "this is all I can tell you about it." He was silent for a moment, and then said, "I took it out of the locked drawer this morning about three, for it was in the early morning all this--happened. It has been inside the book ever since--and--and--this is what is such a marvel to me, the knife only went in a couple of inches at most, just under her left breast, and there wasn't more than half a tablespoonful of blood altogether, not more." "Yes--yes--yes--" The prince jumped up in extraordinary agitation. "I know, I know, I've read of that sort of thing--it's internal haemorrhage, you know. Sometimes there isn't a drop--if the blow goes straight to the heart--" "Wait--listen!" cried Rogojin, suddenly, starting up. "Somebody's walking about, do you hear? In the hall." Both sat up to listen. "I hear," said the prince in a whisper, his eyes fixed on Rogojin. "Footsteps?" "Yes." "Shall we shut the door, and lock it, or not?" "Yes, lock it." They locked the door, and both lay down again. There was a long silence. "Yes, by-the-by," whispered the prince, hurriedly and excitedly as before, as though he had just seized hold of an idea and was afraid of losing it again. "I--I wanted those cards! They say you played cards with her?" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 385 "Yes, I played with her," said Rogojin, after a short silence. "Where are the cards?" "Here they are," said Rogojin, after a still longer pause. He pulled out a pack of cards, wrapped in a bit of paper, from his pocket, and handed them to the prince. The latter took them, with a sort of perplexity. A new, sad, helpless feeling weighed on his heart; he had suddenly realized that not only at this moment, but for a long while, he had not been saying what he wanted to say, had not been acting as he wanted to act; and that these cards which he held in his hand, and which he had been so delighted to have at first, were now of no use--no use... He rose, and wrung his hands. Rogojin lay motionless, and seemed neither to hear nor see his movements; but his eyes blazed in the darkness, and were fixed in a wild stare. The prince sat down on a chair, and watched him in alarm. Half an hour went by. Suddenly Rogojin burst into a loud abrupt laugh, as though he had quite forgotten that they must speak in whispers. "That officer, eh!--that young officer--don't you remember that fellow at the band? Eh? Ha, ha, ha! Didn't she whip him smartly, eh?" The prince jumped up from his seat in renewed terror. When Rogojin quieted down (which he did at once) the prince bent over him, sat down beside him, and with painfully beating heart and still more painful breath, watched his face intently. Rogojin never turned his head, and seemed to have forgotten all about him. The prince watched and waited. Time went on--it began to grow light. Rogojin began to wander--muttering disconnectedly; then he took to shouting and laughing. The prince stretched out a trembling hand and gently stroked his hair and his cheeks--he could do nothing more. His legs trembled again and he seemed to have lost the use of them. A new sensation came over him, filling his heart and soul with infinite anguish. Meanwhile the daylight grew full and strong; and at last the prince lay down, as though overcome by despair, and laid his face against the white, motionless face of Rogojin. His tears flowed on to Rogojin's cheek, though he was perhaps not aware of them himself. At all events when, after many hours, the door was opened and people thronged in, they found the murderer unconscious and in a raging fever. The prince was sitting by him, motionless, and each time that the sick man gave a laugh, or a shout, he hastened to pass his own trembling hand over his companion's hair and cheeks, as though trying to soothe and quiet him. But alas I he understood nothing of what was said to him, and recognized none of those who surrounded him. If Schneider himself had arrived then and seen his former pupil and patient, remembering the prince's condition during the first year in Switzerland, he would have flung up his hands, despairingly, and cried, as he did then: "An idiot!" XII. WHEN the widow hurried away to Pavlofsk, she went straight to Daria Alexeyevna's house, and telling all she knew, threw her into a state of great alarm. Both ladies decided to communicate at once with Lebedeff, who, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 386 as the friend and landlord of the prince, was also much agitated. Vera Lebedeff told all she knew, and by Lebedeff's advice it was decided that all three should go to Petersburg as quickly as possible, in order to avert "what might so easily happen." This is how it came about that at eleven o'clock next morning Rogojin's flat was opened by the police in the presence of Lebedeff, the two ladies, and Rogojin's own brother, who lived in the wing. The evidence of the porter went further than anything else towards the success of Lebedeff in gaining the assistance of the police. He declared that he had seen Rogojin return to the house last night, accompanied by a friend, and that both had gone upstairs very secretly and cautiously. After this there was no hesitation about breaking open the door, since it could not be got open in any other way. Rogojin suffered from brain fever for two months. When he recovered from the attack he was at once brought up on trial for murder. He gave full, satisfactory, and direct evidence on every point; and the prince's name was, thanks to this, not brought into the proceedings. Rogojin was very quiet during the progress of the trial. He did not contradict his clever and eloquent counsel, who argued that the brain fever, or inflammation of the brain, was the cause of the crime; clearly proving that this malady had existed long before the murder was perpetrated, and had been brought on by the sufferings of the accused. But Rogojin added no words of his own in confirmation of this view, and as before, he recounted with marvellous exactness the details of his crime. He was convicted, but with extenuating circumstances, and condemned to hard labour in Siberia for fifteen years. He heard his sentence grimly, silently, and thoughtfully. His colossal fortune, with the exception of the comparatively small portion wasted in the first wanton period of his inheritance, went to his brother, to the great satisfaction of the latter. The old lady, Rogojin's mother, is still alive, and remembers her favourite son Parfen sometimes, but not clearly. God spared her the knowledge of this dreadful calamity which had overtaken her house. Lebedeff, Keller, Gania, Ptitsin, and many other friends of ours continue to live as before. There is scarcely any change in them, so that there is no need to tell of their subsequent doings. Hippolyte died in great agitation, and rather sooner than he expected, about a fortnight after Nastasia Phiipovna's death. Colia was much affected by these events, and drew nearer to his mother in heart and sympathy. Nina Alexandrovna is anxious, because he is "thoughtful beyond his years," but he will, we think, make a useful and active man. The prince's further fate was more or less decided by Colia, who selected, out of all the persons he had met during the last six or seven months, Evgenie Pavlovitch, as friend and confidant. To him he made over all that he knew as to the events above recorded, and as to the present condition of the prince. He was not far wrong in his choice. Evgenie Pavlovitch took the deepest interest in the fate of the unfortunate "idiot," and, thanks to his influence, the prince found himself once more with Dr. Schneider, in Switzerland. Evgenie Pavlovitch, who went abroad at this time, intending to live a long while on the continent, being, as he often said, quite superfluous in Russia, visits his sick friend at Schneider's every few months. But Dr. Schneider frowns ever more and more and shakes his head; he hints that the brain is fatally injured; he does not as yet declare that his patient is incurable, but he allows himself to express the gravest fears. Evgenie takes this much to heart, and he has a heart, as is proved by the fact that he receives and even answers letters from Colia. But besides this, another trait in his character has become apparent, and as it is a good trait by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 387 we will make haste to reveal it. After each visit to Schneider's establishment, Evgenie Pavlovitch writes another letter, besides that to Colia, giving the most minute particulars concerning the invalid's condition. In these letters is to be detected, and in each one more than the last, a growing feeling of friendship and sympathy. The individual who corresponds thus with Evgenie Pavlovitch, and who engages so much of his attention and respect, is Vera Lebedeff. We have never been able to discover clearly how such relations sprang up. Of course the root of them was in the events which we have already recorded, and which so filled Vera with grief on the prince's account that she fell seriously ill. But exactly how the acquaintance and friendship came about, we cannot say. We have spoken of these letters chiefly because in them is often to be found some news of the Epanchin family, and of Aglaya in particular. Evgenie Pavlovitch wrote of her from Paris, that after a short and sudden attachment to a certain Polish count, an exile, she had suddenly married him, quite against the wishes of her parents, though they had eventually given their consent through fear of a terrible scandal. Then, after a six months' silence, Evgenie Pavlovitch informed his correspondent, in a long letter, full of detail, that while paying his last visit to Dr. Schneider's establishment, he had there come across the whole Epanchin family (excepting the general, who had remained in St. Petersburg) and Prince S. The meeting was a strange one. They all received Evgenie Pavlovitch with effusive delight; Adelaida and Alexandra were deeply grateful to him for his "angelic kindness to the unhappy prince." Lizabetha Prokofievna, when she saw poor Muishkin, in his enfeebled and humiliated condition, had wept bitterly. Apparently all was forgiven him. Prince S. had made a few just and sensible remarks. It seemed to Evgenie Pavlovitch that there was not yet perfect harmony between Adelaida and her fiance, but he thought that in time the impulsive young girl would let herself be guided by his reason and experience. Besides, the recent events that had befallen her family had given Adelaida much to think about, especially the sad experiences of her younger sister. Within six months, everything that the family had dreaded from the marriage with the Polish count had come to pass. He turned out to be neither count nor exile--at least, in the political sense of the word--but had had to leave his native land owing to some rather dubious affair of the past. It was his noble patriotism, of which he made a great display, that had rendered him so interesting in Aglaya's eyes. She was so fascinated that, even before marrying him, she joined a committee that had been organized abroad to work for the restoration of Poland; and further, she visited the confessional of a celebrated Jesuit priest, who made an absolute fanatic of her. The supposed fortune of the count had dwindled to a mere nothing, although he had given almost irrefutable evidence of its existence to Lizabetha Prokofievna and Prince S. Besides this, before they had been married half a year, the count and his friend the priest managed to bring about a quarrel between Aglaya and her family, so that it was now several months since they had seen her. In a word, there was a great deal to say; but Mrs. Epanchin, and her daughters, and even Prince S., were still so much distressed by Aglaya's latest infatuations and adventures, that they did hot care to talk of them, though they must have known that Evgenie knew much of the story already. Poor Lizabetha Prokofievna was most anxious to get home, and, according to Evgenie's account, she criticized everything foreign with much hostility. "They can't bake bread anywhere, decently; and they all freeze in their houses, during winter, like a lot of mice in a cellar. At all events, I've had a good Russian cry over this poor fellow," she added, pointing to the prince, who had not recognized her in the slightest degree. "So enough of this nonsense; it's time we faced the truth. All this continental life, all this Europe of yours, and all the trash about 'going abroad' is simply foolery, and it is mere foolery on our part to come. Remember what I say, my friend; you'll live to agree with me yourself." by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 388 So spoke the good lady, almost angrily, as she took leave of Evgenie Pavlovitch. ed or destroyed almost all the rest, and renewed and recovered the possession of their plantation, and still lived upon the island. All these things, with some very surprising incidents in some new adventures of my own, for ten years more, I may perhaps give a further account of hereafter.