CHAPTER I. NIGHT

THE POSSESSED (The Devils)

A Novel In Three Parts

By Fyodor Dostoevsky

Translated From The Russian By Constance Garnett

1916

CONTENTS:

* PART I

* CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY

* CHAPTER II. PRINCE HARRY. MATCHMAKING.

* CHAPTER III. THE SINS OF OTHERS

* CHAPTER IV. THE CRIPPLE

* CHAPTER V. THE SUBTLE SERPENT

* PART II

* CHAPTER I. NIGHT

* CHAPTER II. NIGHT (continued)

* CHAPTER III. THE DUEL

* CHAPTER IV. ALL IN EXPECTATION

* CHAPTER V. ON THE EVE OF THE FETE

* CHAPTER VI. PYOTR STEPANOVITCH IS BUSY

* CHAPTER VII. A MEETING

* CHAPTER VIII. IVAN THE TSAREVITCH

* CHAPTER IX. A RAID AT STEPAN TROFIMOVITCH'S

* CHAPTER X. FILIBUSTERS. A FATAL MORNING

* PART III

* CHAPTER I. THE FETE--FIRST PART

* CHAPTER II. THE END OF THE FETE

* CHAPTER III. A ROMANCE ENDED

* CHAPTER IV. THE LAST RESOLUTION

* CHAPTER V. A WANDERER

* CHAPTER VI. A BUSY NIGHT

* CHAPTER VII. STEPAN TROFIMOVITCH'S LAST WANDERING

* CHAPTER VIII. CONCLUSION

"Strike me dead, the track has vanished,

Well, what now? We've lost the way,

Demons have bewitched our horses,

Led us in the wilds astray.

"What a number! Whither drift they?

What's the mournful dirge they sing?

Do they hail a witch's marriage

Or a goblin's burying?"

A. Pushkin.

"And there was one herd of many swine feeding on this

mountain; and they besought him that he would suffer them to

enter into them. And he suffered them.

"Then went the devils out of the man and entered into the

swine; and the herd ran violently down a steep place into

the lake and were choked.

"When they that fed them saw what was done, they fled, and

went and told it in the city and in the country.

"Then they went out to see what was done; and came to Jesus

and found the man, out of whom the devils were departed,

sitting at the feet of Jesus, clothed and in his right mind;

and they were afraid."

Luke, ch. viii. 32-37.

PART I

CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY

SOME DETAILS OF THE BIOGRAPHY OF THAT HIGHLY RESPECTED GENTLEMAN STEPAN

TROFIMOVITCH VERHOVENSKY.

I

IN UNDERTAKING to describe the recent and strange incidents in our town,

till lately wrapped in uneventful obscurity, I find myself forced in

absence of literary skill to begin my story rather far back, that is

to say, with certain biographical details concerning that talented and

highly-esteemed gentleman, Stepan Trofimovitch Verhovensky. I trust that

these details may at least serve as an introduction, while my projected

story itself will come later.

I will say at once that Stepan Trofimovitch had always filled a

particular rôle among us, that of the progressive patriot, so to say,

and he was passionately fond of playing the part--so much so that I

really believe he could not have existed without it. Not that I would

put him on a level with an actor at a theatre, God forbid, for I really

have a respect for him. This may all have been the effect of habit, or

rather, more exactly of a generous propensity he had from his earliest

years for indulging in an agreeable day-dream in which he figured as

a picturesque public character. He fondly loved, for instance, his

position as a "persecuted" man and, so to speak, an "exile." There is a

sort of traditional glamour about those two little words that fascinated

him once for all and, exalting him gradually in his own opinion, raised

him in the course of years to a lofty pedestal very gratifying to

vanity. In an English satire of the last century, Gulliver, returning

from the land of the Lilliputians where the people were only three or

four inches high, had grown so accustomed to consider himself a giant

among them, that as he walked along the streets of London he could not

help crying out to carriages and passers-by to be careful and get out of

his way for fear he should crush them, imagining that they were little

and he was still a giant. He was laughed at and abused for it, and rough

coachmen even lashed at the giant with their whips. But was that just?

What may not be done by habit? Habit had brought Stepan Trofimovitch

almost to the same position, but in a more innocent and inoffensive

form, if one may use such expressions, for he was a most excellent man.

I am even inclined to suppose that towards the end he had been entirely

forgotten everywhere; but still it cannot be said that his name had

never been known. It is beyond question that he had at one time belonged

to a certain distinguished constellation of celebrated leaders of

the last generation, and at one time--though only for the briefest

moment--his name was pronounced by many hasty persons of that day almost

as though it were on a level with the names of Tchaadaev, of Byelinsky,

of Granovsky, and of Herzen, who had only just begun to write abroad.

But Stepan Trofimovitch's activity ceased almost at the moment it began,

owing, so to say, to a "vortex of combined circumstances." And would you

believe it? It turned out afterwards that there had been no "vortex" and

even no "circumstances," at least in that connection. I only learned

the other day to my intense amazement, though on the most unimpeachable

authority, that Stepan Trofimovitch had lived among us in our province

not as an "exile" as we were accustomed to believe, and had never even

been under police supervision at all. Such is the force of imagination!

All his life he sincerely believed that in certain spheres he was a

constant cause of apprehension, that every step he took was watched

and noted, and that each one of the three governors who succeeded one

another during twenty years in our province came with special and uneasy

ideas concerning him, which had, by higher powers, been impressed upon

each before everything else, on receiving the appointment. Had anyone

assured the honest man on the most irrefutable grounds that he had

nothing to be afraid of, he would certainly have been offended. Yet

Stepan Trofimovitch was a most intelligent and gifted man, even, so to

say, a man of science, though indeed, in science... well, in fact he

had not done such great things in science. I believe indeed he had done

nothing at all. But that's very often the case, of course, with men of

science among us in Russia.

He came back from abroad and was brilliant in the capacity of lecturer

at the university, towards the end of the forties. He only had time

to deliver a few lectures, I believe they were about the Arabs; he

maintained, too, a brilliant thesis on the political and Hanseatic

importance of the German town Hanau, of which there was promise in the

epoch between 1413 and 1428, and on the special and obscure reasons

why that promise was never fulfilled. This dissertation was a cruel

and skilful thrust at the Slavophils of the day, and at once made him

numerous and irreconcilable enemies among them. Later on--after he had

lost his post as lecturer, however--he published (by way of revenge,

so to say, and to show them what a man they had lost) in a progressive

monthly review, which translated Dickens and advocated the views of

George Sand, the beginning of a very profound investigation into the

causes, I believe, of the extraordinary moral nobility of certain

knights at a certain epoch or something of that nature.

Some lofty and exceptionally noble idea was maintained in it, anyway.

It was said afterwards that the continuation was hurriedly forbidden and

even that the progressive review had to suffer for having printed the

first part. That may very well have been so, for what was not possible

in those days? Though, in this case, it is more likely that there

was nothing of the kind, and that the author himself was too lazy to

conclude his essay. He cut short his lectures on the Arabs because,

somehow and by someone (probably one of his reactionary enemies) a

letter had been seized giving an account of certain circumstances, in

consequence of which someone had demanded an explanation from him. I

don't know whether the story is true, but it was asserted that at the

same time there was discovered in Petersburg a vast, unnatural, and

illegal conspiracy of thirty people which almost shook society to its

foundations. It was said that they were positively on the point of

translating Fourier. As though of design a poem of Stepan Trofimovitch's

was seized in Moscow at that very time, though it had been written six

years before in Berlin in his earliest youth, and manuscript copies had

been passed round a circle consisting of two poetical amateurs and one

student. This poem is lying now on my table. No longer ago than last

year I received a recent copy in his own handwriting from Stepan

Trofimovitch himself, signed by him, and bound in a splendid red leather

binding. It is not without poetic merit, however, and even a certain

talent. It's strange, but in those days (or to be more exact, in the

thirties) people were constantly composing in that style. I find it

difficult to describe the subject, for I really do not understand it.

It is some sort of an allegory in lyrical-dramatic form, recalling the

second part of Faust. The scene opens with a chorus of women, followed

by a chorus of men, then a chorus of incorporeal powers of some sort,

and at the end of all a chorus of spirits not yet living but very

eager to come to life. All these choruses sing about something very

indefinite, for the most part about somebody's curse, but with a tinge

of the higher humour. But the scene is suddenly changed. There begins a

sort of "festival of life" at which even insects sing, a tortoise

comes on the scene with certain sacramental Latin words, and even, if

I remember aright, a mineral sings about something that is a quite

inanimate object. In fact, they all sing continually, or if they

converse, it is simply to abuse one another vaguely, but again with

a tinge of higher meaning. At last the scene is changed again; a

wilderness appears, and among the rocks there wanders a civilized young

man who picks and sucks certain herbs. Asked by a fairy why he sucks

these herbs, he answers that, conscious of a superfluity of life in

himself, he seeks forgetfulness, and finds it in the juice of these

herbs, but that his great desire is to lose his reason at once (a desire

possibly superfluous). Then a youth of indescribable beauty rides in on

a black steed, and an immense multitude of all nations follow him.

The youth represents death, for whom all the peoples are yearning. And

finally, in the last scene we are suddenly shown the Tower of Babel, and

certain athletes at last finish building it with a song of new hope, and

when at length they complete the topmost pinnacle, the lord (of Olympia,

let us say) takes flight in a comic fashion, and man, grasping the

situation and seizing his place, at once begins a new life with new

insight into things. Well, this poem was thought at that time to be

dangerous. Last year I proposed to Stepan Trofimovitch to publish it,

on the ground of its perfect harmlessness nowadays, but he declined

the suggestion with evident dissatisfaction. My view of its complete

harmlessness evidently displeased him, and I even ascribe to it a

certain coldness on his part, which lasted two whole months.

And what do you think? Suddenly, almost at the time I proposed printing

it here, our poem was published abroad in a collection of revolutionary

verse, without the knowledge of Stepan Trofimovitch. He was at

first alarmed, rushed to the governor, and wrote a noble letter in

self-defence to Petersburg. He read it to me twice, but did not send

it, not knowing to whom to address it. In fact he was in a state of

agitation for a whole month, but I am convinced that in the secret

recesses of his heart he was enormously flattered. He almost took the

copy of the collection to bed with him, and kept it hidden under his

mattress in the daytime; he positively would not allow the women to turn

his bed, and although he expected every day a telegram, he held his head

high. No telegram came. Then he made friends with me again, which is a

proof of the extreme kindness of his gentle and unresentful heart.

II

Of course I don't assert that he had never suffered for his convictions

at all, but I am fully convinced that he might have gone on lecturing

on his Arabs as long as he liked, if he had only given the necessary

explanations. But he was too lofty, and he proceeded with peculiar haste

to assure himself that his career was ruined forever "by the vortex of

circumstance." And if the whole truth is to be told the real cause of

the change in his career was the very delicate proposition which had

been made before and was then renewed by Varvara Petrovna Stavrogin, a

lady of great wealth, the wife of a lieutenant-general, that he should

undertake the education and the whole intellectual development of her

only son in the capacity of a superior sort of teacher and friend, to

say nothing of a magnificent salary. This proposal had been made to

him the first time in Berlin, at the moment when he was first left a

widower. His first wife was a frivolous girl from our province, whom he

married in his early and unthinking youth, and apparently he had had a

great deal of trouble with this young person, charming as she was,

owing to the lack of means for her support; and also from other, more

delicate, reasons. She died in Paris after three years' separation

from him, leaving him a son of five years old; "the fruit of our first,

joyous, and unclouded love," were the words the sorrowing father once

let fall in my presence.

The child had, from the first, been sent back to Russia, where he was

brought up in the charge of distant cousins in some remote region.

Stepan Trofimovitch had declined Varvara Petrovna's proposal on that

occasion and had quickly married again, before the year was over, a

taciturn Berlin girl, and, what makes it more strange, there was no

particular necessity for him to do so. But apart from his marriage there

were, it appears, other reasons for his declining the situation. He was

tempted by the resounding fame of a professor, celebrated at that time,

and he, in his turn, hastened to the lecturer's chair for which he had

been preparing himself, to try his eagle wings in flight. But now with

singed wings he naturally remembered the proposition which even then had

made him hesitate. The sudden death of his second wife, who did not live

a year with him, settled the matter decisively. To put it plainly it was

all brought about by the passionate sympathy and priceless, so to

speak, classic friendship of Varvara Petrovna, if one may use such

an expression of friendship. He flung himself into the arms of this

friendship, and his position was settled for more than twenty years. I

use the expression "flung himself into the arms of," but God forbid that

anyone should fly to idle and superfluous conclusions. These embraces

must be understood only in the most loftily moral sense. The most

refined and delicate tie united these two beings, both so remarkable,

forever.

The post of tutor was the more readily accepted too, as the property--a

very small one--left to Stepan Trofimovitch by his first wife was close

to Skvoreshniki, the Stavrogins' magnificent estate on the outskirts of

our provincial town. Besides, in the stillness of his study, far from

the immense burden of university work, it was always possible to devote

himself to the service of science, and to enrich the literature of his

country with erudite studies. These works did not appear. But on the

other hand it did appear possible to spend the rest of his life, more

than twenty years, "a reproach incarnate," so to speak, to his native

country, in the words of a popular poet:

_Reproach incarnate thou didst stand_

_Erect before thy Fatherland,_

_O Liberal idealist!_

But the person to whom the popular poet referred may perhaps have had

the right to adopt that pose for the rest of his life if he had wished

to do so, though it must have been tedious. Our Stepan Trofimovitch was,

to tell the truth, only an imitator compared with such people; moreover,

he had grown weary of standing erect and often lay down for a while.

But, to do him justice, the "incarnation of reproach" was preserved even

in the recumbent attitude, the more so as that was quite sufficient for

the province. You should have seen him at our club when he sat down to

cards. His whole figure seemed to exclaim "Cards! Me sit down to whist

with you! Is it consistent? Who is responsible for it? Who has shattered

my energies and turned them to whist? Ah, perish, Russia!" and he would

majestically trump with a heart.

And to tell the truth he dearly loved a game of cards, which led him,

especially in later years, into frequent and unpleasant skirmishes with

Varvara Petrovna, particularly as he was always losing. But of that

later. I will only observe that he was a man of tender conscience (that

is, sometimes) and so was often depressed. In the course of his twenty

years' friendship with Varvara Petrovna he used regularly, three or

four times a year, to sink into a state of "patriotic grief," as it

was called among us, or rather really into an attack of spleen, but our

estimable Varvara Petrovna preferred the former phrase. Of late years

his grief had begun to be not only patriotic, but at times alcoholic

too; but Varvara Petrovna's alertness succeeded in keeping him all his

life from trivial inclinations. And he needed someone to look after him

indeed, for he sometimes behaved very oddly: in the midst of his exalted

sorrow he would begin laughing like any simple peasant. There were

moments when he began to take a humorous tone even about himself. But

there was nothing Varvara Petrovna dreaded so much as a humorous tone.

She was a woman of the classic type, a female Mæcenas, invariably

guided only by the highest considerations. The influence of this exalted

lady over her poor friend for twenty years is a fact of the first

importance. I shall need to speak of her more particularly, which I now

proceed to do.

III

There are strange friendships. The two friends are always ready to fly

at one another, and go on like that all their lives, and yet they cannot

separate. Parting, in fact, is utterly impossible. The one who has begun

the quarrel and separated will be the first to fall ill and even die,

perhaps, if the separation comes off. I know for a positive fact that

several times Stepan Trofimovitch has jumped up from the sofa and

beaten the wall with his fists after the most intimate and emotional

_tête-à-tête_ with Varvara Petrovna.

This proceeding was by no means an empty symbol; indeed, on one

occasion, he broke some plaster off the wall. It may be asked how I come

to know such delicate details. What if I were myself a witness of it?

What if Stepan Trofimovitch himself has, on more than one occasion,

sobbed on my shoulder while he described to me in lurid colours all his

most secret feelings. (And what was there he did not say at such times!)

But what almost always happened after these tearful outbreaks was that

next day he was ready to crucify himself for his ingratitude. He would

send for me in a hurry or run over to see me simply to assure me that

Varvara Petrovna was "an angel of honour and delicacy, while he was very

much the opposite." He did not only run to confide in me, but, on more

than one occasion, described it all to her in the most eloquent letter,

and wrote a full signed confession that no longer ago than the day

before he had told an outsider that she kept him out of vanity, that

she was envious of his talents and erudition, that she hated him and was

only afraid to express her hatred openly, dreading that he would leave

her and so damage her literary reputation, that this drove him to

self-contempt, and he was resolved to die a violent death, and that he

was waiting for the final word from her which would decide everything,

and so on and so on in the same style. You can fancy after this what

an hysterical pitch the nervous outbreaks of this most innocent of

all fifty-year-old infants sometimes reached! I once read one of these

letters after some quarrel between them, arising from a trivial matter,

but growing venomous as it went on. I was horrified and besought him not

to send it.

"I must... more honourable... duty... I shall die if I don't confess

everything, everything!" he answered almost in delirium, and he did send

the letter.

That was the difference between them, that Varvara Petrovna never would

have sent such a letter. It is true that he was passionately fond of

writing, he wrote to her though he lived in the same house, and during

hysterical interludes he would write two letters a day. I know for a

fact that she always read these letters with the greatest attention,

even when she received two a day, and after reading them she put them

away in a special drawer, sorted and annotated; moreover, she pondered

them in her heart. But she kept her friend all day without an answer,

met him as though there were nothing the matter, exactly as though

nothing special had happened the day before. By degrees she broke him in

so completely that at last he did not himself dare to allude to what had

happened the day before, and only glanced into her eyes at times. But

she never forgot anything, while he sometimes forgot too quickly, and

encouraged by her composure he would not infrequently, if friends came

in, laugh and make jokes over the champagne the very same day. With what

malignancy she must have looked at him at such moments, while he noticed

nothing! Perhaps in a week's time, a month's time, or even six months

later, chancing to recall some phrase in such a letter, and then the

whole letter with all its attendant circumstances, he would suddenly

grow hot with shame, and be so upset that he fell ill with one of his

attacks of "summer cholera." These attacks of a sort of "summer cholera"

were, in some cases, the regular consequence of his nervous agitations

and were an interesting peculiarity of his physical constitution.

No doubt Varvara Petrovna did very often hate him. But there was one

thing he had not discerned up to the end: that was that he had become

for her a son, her creation, even, one may say, her invention; he had

become flesh of her flesh, and she kept and supported him not simply

from "envy of his talents." And how wounded she must have been by such

suppositions! An inexhaustible love for him lay concealed in her heart

in the midst of continual hatred, jealousy, and contempt. She would not

let a speck of dust fall upon him, coddled him up for twenty-two years,

would not have slept for nights together if there were the faintest

breath against his reputation as a poet, a learned man, and a public

character. She had invented him, and had been the first to believe in

her own invention. He was, after a fashion, her day-dream.... But in

return she exacted a great deal from him, sometimes even slavishness. It

was incredible how long she harboured resentment. I have two anecdotes

to tell about that.

IV

On one occasion, just at the time when the first rumours of the

emancipation of the serfs were in the air, when all Russia was exulting

and making ready for a complete regeneration, Varvara Petrovna was

visited by a baron from Petersburg, a man of the highest connections,

and very closely associated with the new reform. Varvara Petrovna prized

such visits highly, as her connections in higher circles had grown

weaker and weaker since the death of her husband, and had at last ceased

altogether. The baron spent an hour drinking tea with her. There was no

one else present but Stepan Trofimovitch, whom Varvara Petrovna invited

and exhibited. The baron had heard something about him before or

affected to have done so, but paid little attention to him at tea.

Stepan Trofimovitch of course was incapable of making a social blunder,

and his manners were most elegant. Though I believe he was by no means

of exalted origin, yet it happened that he had from earliest childhood

been brought up in a Moscow household--of high rank, and consequently

was well bred. He spoke French like a Parisian. Thus the baron was to

have seen from the first glance the sort of people with whom Varvara

Petrovna surrounded herself, even in provincial seclusion. But things

did not fall out like this. When the baron positively asserted the

absolute truth of the rumours of the great reform, which were then

only just beginning to be heard, Stepan Trofimovitch could not contain

himself, and suddenly shouted "Hurrah!" and even made some gesticulation

indicative of delight. His ejaculation was not over-loud and quite

polite, his delight was even perhaps premeditated, and his gesture

purposely studied before the looking-glass half an hour before tea. But

something must have been amiss with it, for the baron permitted himself

a faint smile, though he, at once, with extraordinary courtesy, put in

a phrase concerning the universal and befitting emotion of all Russian

hearts in view of the great event. Shortly afterwards he took his

leave and at parting did not forget to hold out two fingers to Stepan

Trofimovitch. On returning to the drawing-room Varvara Petrovna was

at first silent for two or three minutes, and seemed to be looking for

something on the table. Then she turned to Stepan Trofimovitch, and with

pale face and flashing eyes she hissed in a whisper:

"I shall never forgive you for that!"

Next day she met her friend as though nothing had happened, she never

referred to the incident, but thirteen years afterwards, at a tragic

moment, she recalled it and reproached him with it, and she turned pale,

just as she had done thirteen years before. Only twice in the course of

her life did she say to him:

"I shall never forgive you for that!"

The incident with the baron was the second time, but the first incident

was so characteristic and had so much influence on the fate of Stepan

Trofimovitch that I venture to refer to that too.

It was in 1855, in spring-time, in May, just after the news had reached

Skvoreshniki of the death of Lieutenant-General Stavrogin, a frivolous

old gentleman who died of a stomach ailment on the way to the Crimea,

where he was hastening to join the army on active service. Varvara

Petrovna was left a widow and put on deep mourning. She could not, it is

true, deplore his death very deeply, since, for the last four years,

she had been completely separated from him owing to incompatibility of

temper, and was giving him an allowance. (The Lieutenant-General himself

had nothing but one hundred and fifty serfs and his pay, besides his

position and his connections. All the money and Skvoreshniki belonged to

Varvara Petrovna, the only daughter of a very rich contractor.) Yet she

was shocked by the suddenness of the news, and retired into complete

solitude. Stepan Trofimovitch, of course, was always at her side.

May was in its full beauty. The evenings were exquisite. The wild cherry

was in flower. The two friends walked every evening in the garden and

used to sit till nightfall in the arbour, and pour out their thoughts

and feelings to one another. They had poetic moments. Under the

influence of the change in her position Varvara Petrovna talked more

than usual. She, as it were, clung to the heart of her friend, and this

continued for several evenings. A strange idea suddenly came over Stepan

Trofimovitch: "Was not the inconsolable widow reckoning upon him, and

expecting from him, when her mourning was over, the offer of his hand?"

A cynical idea, but the very loftiness of a man's nature sometimes

increases a disposition to cynical ideas if only from the many-sidedness

of his culture. He began to look more deeply into it, and thought it

seemed like it. He pondered: "Her fortune is immense, of course, but..."

Varvara Petrovna certainly could not be called a beauty. She was a

tall, yellow, bony woman with an extremely long face, suggestive of a

horse. Stepan Trofimovitch hesitated more and more, he was tortured by

doubts, he positively shed tears of indecision once or twice (he wept

not infrequently). In the evenings, that is to say in the arbour, his

countenance involuntarily began to express something capricious and

ironical, something coquettish and at the same time condescending. This

is apt to happen as it were by accident, and the more gentlemanly the

man the more noticeable it is. Goodness only knows what one is to think

about it, but it's most likely that nothing had begun working in her

heart that could have fully justified Stepan Trofimovitch's suspicions.

Moreover, she would not have changed her name, Stavrogin, for his

name, famous as it was. Perhaps there was nothing in it but the play

of femininity on her side; the manifestation of an unconscious feminine

yearning so natural in some extremely feminine types. However, I won't

answer for it; the depths of the female heart have not been explored to

this day. But I must continue.

It is to be supposed that she soon inwardly guessed the significance of

her friend's strange expression; she was quick and observant, and he was

sometimes extremely guileless. But the evenings went on as before, and

their conversations were just as poetic and interesting. And behold

on one occasion at nightfall, after the most lively and poetical

conversation, they parted affectionately, warmly pressing each other's

hands at the steps of the lodge where Stepan Trofimovitch slept. Every

summer he used to move into this little lodge which stood adjoining the

huge seignorial house of Skvoreshniki, almost in the garden. He had only

just gone in, and in restless hesitation taken a cigar, and not having

yet lighted it, was standing weary and motionless before the open

window, gazing at the light feathery white clouds gliding around the

bright moon, when suddenly a faint rustle made him start and turn

round. Varvara Petrovna, whom he had left only four minutes earlier,

was standing before him again. Her yellow face was almost blue. Her lips

were pressed tightly together and twitching at the corners. For ten full

seconds she looked him in the eyes in silence with a firm relentless

gaze, and suddenly whispered rapidly:

"I shall never forgive you for this!"

When, ten years later, Stepan Trofimovitch, after closing the doors,

told me this melancholy tale in a whisper, he vowed that he had been so

petrified on the spot that he had not seen or heard how Varvara Petrovna

had disappeared. As she never once afterwards alluded to the incident

and everything went on as though nothing had happened, he was all his

life inclined to the idea that it was all an hallucination, a symptom

of illness, the more so as he was actually taken ill that very night

and was indisposed for a fortnight, which, by the way, cut short the

interviews in the arbour.

But in spite of his vague theory of hallucination he seemed every day,

all his life, to be expecting the continuation, and, so to say, the

_dénouement_ of this affair. He could not believe that that was the end of

it! And if so he must have looked strangely sometimes at his friend.

V

She had herself designed the costume for him which he wore for the rest

of his life. It was elegant and characteristic; a long black frock-coat,

buttoned almost to the top, but stylishly cut; a soft hat (in summer a

straw hat) with a wide brim, a white batiste cravat with a full bow

and hanging ends, a cane with a silver knob; his hair flowed on to his

shoulders. It was dark brown, and only lately had begun to get a little

grey. He was clean-shaven. He was said to have been very handsome in his

youth. And, to my mind, he was still an exceptionally impressive figure

even in old age. Besides, who can talk of old age at fifty-three?

From his special pose as a patriot, however, he did not try to appear

younger, but seemed rather to pride himself on the solidity of his

age, and, dressed as described, tall and thin with flowing hair, he

looked almost like a patriarch, or even more like the portrait of the

poet Kukolnik, engraved in the edition of his works published in 1830 or

thereabouts. This resemblance was especially striking when he sat in the

garden in summertime, on a seat under a bush of flowering lilac, with

both hands propped on his cane and an open book beside him, musing

poetically over the setting sun. In regard to books I may remark that

he came in later years rather to avoid reading. But that was only quite

towards the end. The papers and magazines ordered in great profusion by

Varvara Petrovna he was continually reading. He never lost interest in

the successes of Russian literature either, though he always maintained

a dignified attitude with regard to them. He was at one time engrossed

in the study of our home and foreign politics, but he soon gave up the

undertaking with a gesture of despair. It sometimes happened that he

would take De Tocqueville with him into the garden while he had a Paul

de Kock in his pocket. But these are trivial matters.

I must observe in parenthesis about the portrait of Kukolnik; the

engraving had first come into the hands of Varvara Petrovna when she was

a girl in a high-class boarding-school in Moscow. She fell in love with

the portrait at once, after the habit of all girls at school who fall

in love with anything they come across, as well as with their teachers,

especially the drawing and writing masters. What is interesting in this,

though, is not the characteristics of girls but the fact that even at

fifty Varvara Petrovna kept the engraving among her most intimate and

treasured possessions, so that perhaps it was only on this account that

she had designed for Stepan Trofimovitch a costume somewhat like the

poet's in the engraving. But that, of course, is a trifling matter too.

For the first years or, more accurately, for the first half of the time

he spent with Varvara Petrovna, Stepan Trofimovitch was still planning a

book and every day seriously prepared to write it. But during the later

period he must have forgotten even what he had done. More and more

frequently he used to say to us:

"I seem to be ready for work, my materials are collected, yet the work

doesn't get done! Nothing is done!"

And he would bow his head dejectedly. No doubt this was calculated

to increase his prestige in our eyes as a martyr to science, but he

himself was longing for something else. "They have forgotten me! I'm

no use to anyone!" broke from him more than once. This intensified

depression took special hold of him towards the end of the fifties.

Varvara Petrovna realised at last that it was a serious matter. Besides,

she could not endure the idea that her friend was forgotten and useless.

To distract him and at the same time to renew his fame she carried him

off to Moscow, where she had fashionable acquaintances in the

literary and scientific world; but it appeared that Moscow too was

unsatisfactory.

It was a peculiar time; something new was beginning, quite unlike the

stagnation of the past, something very strange too, though it was felt

everywhere, even at Skvoreshniki. Rumours of all sorts reached us. The

facts were generally more or less well known, but it was evident that

in addition to the facts there were certain ideas accompanying them,

and what's more, a great number of them. And this was perplexing. It was

impossible to estimate and find out exactly what was the drift of these

ideas. Varvara Petrovna was prompted by the feminine composition of her

character to a compelling desire to penetrate the secret of them.

She took to reading newspapers and magazines, prohibited publications

printed abroad and even the revolutionary manifestoes which were just

beginning to appear at the time (she was able to procure them all); but

this only set her head in a whirl. She fell to writing letters; she got

few answers, and they grew more incomprehensible as time went on. Stepan

Trofimovitch was solemnly called upon to explain "these ideas" to

her once for all, but she remained distinctly dissatisfied with his

explanations.

Stepan Trofimovitch's view of the general movement was supercilious in

the extreme. In his eyes all it amounted to was that he was forgotten

and of no use. At last his name was mentioned, at first in periodicals

published abroad as that of an exiled martyr, and immediately afterwards

in Petersburg as that of a former star in a celebrated constellation.

He was even for some reason compared with Radishtchev. Then someone

printed the statement that he was dead and promised an obituary notice

of him. Stepan Trofimovitch instantly perked up and assumed an air of

immense dignity. All his disdain for his contemporaries evaporated and

he began to cherish the dream of joining the movement and showing his

powers. Varvara Petrovna's faith in everything instantly revived and she

was thrown into a violent ferment. It was decided to go to Petersburg

without a moment's delay, to find out everything on the spot, to go into

everything personally, and, if possible, to throw themselves heart and

soul into the new movement. Among other things she announced that she

was prepared to found a magazine of her own, and henceforward to devote

her whole life to it. Seeing what it had come to, Stepan Trofimovitch

became more condescending than ever, and on the journey began to behave

almost patronisingly to Varvara Petrovna--which she at once laid up in

her heart against him. She had, however, another very important reason

for the trip, which was to renew her connections in higher spheres.

It was necessary, as far as she could, to remind the world of her

existence, or at any rate to make an attempt to do so. The ostensible

object of the journey was to see her only son, who was just finishing

his studies at a Petersburg lyceum.

VI

They spent almost the whole winter season in Petersburg. But by Lent

everything burst like a rainbow-coloured soap-bubble.

Their dreams were dissipated, and the muddle, far from being cleared

up, had become even more revoltingly incomprehensible. To begin with,

connections with the higher spheres were not established, or only on a

microscopic scale, and by humiliating exertions. In her mortification

Varvara Petrovna threw herself heart and soul into the "new ideas," and

began giving evening receptions. She invited literary people, and they

were brought to her at once in multitudes. Afterwards they came of

themselves without invitation, one brought another. Never had she seen

such literary men. They were incredibly vain, but quite open in their

vanity, as though they were performing a duty by the display of it.

Some (but by no means all) of them even turned up intoxicated, seeming,

however, to detect in this a peculiar, only recently discovered, merit.

They were all strangely proud of something. On every face was written

that they had only just discovered some extremely important secret. They

abused one another, and took credit to themselves for it. It was rather

difficult to find out what they had written exactly, but among them

there were critics, novelists, dramatists, satirists, and exposers of

abuses. Stepan Trofimovitch penetrated into their very highest circle

from which the movement was directed. Incredible heights had to be

scaled to reach this group; but they gave him a cordial welcome, though,

of course, no one of them had ever heard of him or knew anything about

him except that he "represented an idea." His manoeuvres among them

were so successful that he got them twice to Varvara Petrovna's salon

in spite of their Olympian grandeur. These people were very serious and

very polite; they behaved nicely; the others were evidently afraid of

them; but it was obvious that they had no time to spare. Two or three

former literary celebrities who happened to be in Petersburg, and with

whom Varvara Petrovna had long maintained a most refined correspondence,

came also. But to her surprise these genuine and quite indubitable

celebrities were stiller than water, humbler than the grass, and some

of them simply hung on to this new rabble, and were shamefully cringing

before them. At first Stepan Trofimovitch was a success. People caught

at him and began to exhibit him at public literary gatherings. The first

time he came on to the platform at some public reading in which he was

to take part, he was received with enthusiastic clapping which lasted

for five minutes. He recalled this with tears nine years afterwards,

though rather from his natural artistic sensibility than from gratitude.

"I swear, and I'm ready to bet," he declared (but only to me, and in

secret), "that not one of that audience knew anything whatever about

me." A noteworthy admission. He must have had a keen intelligence since

he was capable of grasping his position so clearly even on the platform,

even in such a state of exaltation; it also follows that he had not

a keen intelligence if, nine years afterwards, he could not recall

it without mortification. He was made to sign two or three collective

protests (against what he did not know); he signed them. Varvara

Petrovna too was made to protest against some "disgraceful action" and

she signed too. The majority of these new people, however, though they

visited Varvara Petrovna, felt themselves for some reason called upon

to regard her with contempt, and with undisguised irony. Stepan

Trofimovitch hinted to me at bitter moments afterwards that it was from

that time she had been envious of him. She saw, of course, that she

could not get on with these people, yet she received them eagerly,

with all the hysterical impatience of her sex, and, what is more, she

expected something. At her parties she talked little, although she could

talk, but she listened the more. They talked of the abolition of the

censorship, and of phonetic spelling, of the substitution of the Latin

characters for the Russian alphabet, of someone's having been sent into

exile the day before, of some scandal, of the advantage of splitting

Russia into nationalities united in a free federation, of the abolition

of the army and the navy, of the restoration of Poland as far as

the Dnieper, of the peasant reforms, and of the manifestoes, of the

abolition of the hereditary principle, of the family, of children, and

of priests, of women's rights, of Kraevsky's house, for which no one

ever seemed able to forgive Mr. Kraevsky, and so on, and so on. It was

evident that in this mob of new people there were many impostors, but

undoubtedly there were also many honest and very attractive people, in

spite of some surprising characteristics in them. The honest ones were

far more difficult to understand than the coarse and dishonest, but it

was impossible to tell which was being made a tool of by the other.

When Varvara Petrovna announced her idea of founding a magazine, people

flocked to her in even larger numbers, but charges of being a capitalist

and an exploiter of labour were showered upon her to her face. The

rudeness of these accusations was only equalled by their unexpectedness.

The aged General Ivan Ivanovitch Drozdov, an old friend and comrade

of the late General Stavrogin's, known to us all here as an extremely

stubborn and irritable, though very estimable, man (in his own way, of

course), who ate a great deal, and was dreadfully afraid of atheism,

quarrelled at one of Varvara Petrovna's parties with a distinguished

young man. The latter at the first word exclaimed, "You must be a

general if you talk like that," meaning that he could find no word of

abuse worse than "general."

Ivan Ivanovitch flew into a terrible passion: "Yes, sir, I am a general,

and a lieutenant-general, and I have served my Tsar, and you, sir, are a

puppy and an infidel!"

An outrageous scene followed. Next day the incident was exposed in

print, and they began getting up a collective protest against Varvara

Petrovna's disgraceful conduct in not having immediately turned

the general out. In an illustrated paper there appeared a malignant

caricature in which Varvara Petrovna, Stepan Trofimovitch, and General

Drozdov were depicted as three reactionary friends. There were verses

attached to this caricature written by a popular poet especially for the

occasion. I may observe, for my own part, that many persons of general's

rank certainly have an absurd habit of saying, "I have served my

Tsar"...just as though they had not the same Tsar as all the rest of us,

their simple fellow-subjects, but had a special Tsar of their own.

It was impossible, of course, to remain any longer in Petersburg, all

the more so as Stepan Trofimovitch was overtaken by a complete fiasco.

He could not resist talking of the claims of art, and they laughed

at him more loudly as time went on. At his last lecture he thought to

impress them with patriotic eloquence, hoping to touch their hearts,

and reckoning on the respect inspired by his "persecution." He did

not attempt to dispute the uselessness and absurdity of the word

"fatherland," acknowledged the pernicious influence of religion, but

firmly and loudly declared that boots were of less consequence than

Pushkin; of much less, indeed. He was hissed so mercilessly that he

burst into tears, there and then, on the platform. Varvara Petrovna took

him home more dead than alive. _"On m'a traité comme un vieux bonnet

de coton,"_ he babbled senselessly. She was looking after him all night,

giving him laurel-drops and repeating to him till daybreak, "You will

still be of use; you will still make your mark; you will be appreciated

... in another place."

Early next morning five literary men called on Varvara Petrovna, three

of them complete strangers, whom she had never set eyes on before. With

a stern air they informed her that they had looked into the question of

her magazine, and had brought her their decision on the subject. Varvara

Petrovna had never authorised anyone to look into or decide anything

concerning her magazine. Their decision was that, having founded the

magazine, she should at once hand it over to them with the capital to

run it, on the basis of a co-operative society. She herself was to

go back to Skvoreshniki, not forgetting to take with her Stepan

Trofimovitch, who was "out of date." From delicacy they agreed to

recognise the right of property in her case, and to send her every year

a sixth part of the net profits. What was most touching about it

was that of these five men, four certainly were not actuated by any

mercenary motive, and were simply acting in the interests of the

"cause."

"We came away utterly at a loss," Stepan Trofimovitch used to say

afterwards. "I couldn't make head or tail of it, and kept muttering, I

remember, to the rumble of the train:

'Vyek, and vyek, and Lyov Kambek,

Lyov Kambek and vyek, and vyek.'

and goodness knows what, all the way to Moscow. It was only in Moscow

that I came to myself--as though we really might find something

different there."

"Oh, my friends!" he would exclaim to us sometimes with fervour, "you

cannot imagine what wrath and sadness overcome your whole soul when a

great idea, which you have long cherished as holy, is caught up by the

ignorant and dragged forth before fools like themselves into the street,

and you suddenly meet it in the market unrecognisable, in the mud,

absurdly set up, without proportion, without harmony, the plaything of

foolish louts! No! In our day it was not so, and it was not this for

which we strove. No, no, not this at all. I don't recognise it.... Our

day will come again and will turn all the tottering fabric of to-day

into a true path. If not, what will happen?..."

VII

Immediately on their return from Petersburg Varvara Petrovna sent her

friend abroad to "recruit"; and, indeed, it was necessary for them to

part for a time, she felt that. Stepan Trofimovitch was delighted to go.

"There I shall revive!" he exclaimed. "There, at last, I shall set to

work!" But in the first of his letters from Berlin he struck his usual

note:

"My heart is broken!" he wrote to Varvara Petrovna. "I can forget

nothing! Here, in Berlin, everything brings back to me my old past, my

first raptures and my first agonies. Where is she? Where are they both?

Where are you two angels of whom I was never worthy? Where is my son, my

beloved son? And last of all, where am I, where is my old self, strong

as steel, firm as a rock, when now some Andreev, our orthodox clown with

a beard, _peut briser mon existence en deux_"--and so on.

As for Stepan Trofimovitch's son, he had only seen him twice in his

life, the first time when he was born and the second time lately in

Petersburg, where the young man was preparing to enter the university.

The boy had been all his life, as we have said already, brought up by

his aunts (at Varvara Petrovna's expense) in a remote province, nearly

six hundred miles from Skvoreshniki. As for Andreev, he was nothing

more or less than our local shopkeeper, a very eccentric fellow, a

self-taught archæologist who had a passion for collecting Russian

antiquities and sometimes tried to outshine Stepan Trofimovitch in

erudition and in the progressiveness of his opinions. This worthy

shopkeeper, with a grey beard and silver-rimmed spectacles, still owed

Stepan Trofimovitch four hundred roubles for some acres of timber he had

bought on the latter's little estate (near Skvoreshniki). Though Varvara

Petrovna had liberally provided her friend with funds when she sent him

to Berlin, yet Stepan Trofimovitch had, before starting, particularly

reckoned on getting that four hundred roubles, probably for his secret

expenditure, and was ready to cry when Andreev asked leave to defer

payment for a month, which he had a right to do, since he had brought

the first installments of the money almost six months in advance to meet

Stepan Trofimovitch's special need at the time.

Varvara Petrovna read this first letter greedily, and underlining in

pencil the exclamation: "Where are they both?" numbered it and put it

away in a drawer. He had, of course, referred to his two deceased wives.

The second letter she received from Berlin was in a different strain:

"I am working twelve hours out of the twenty-four." ("Eleven would be

enough," muttered Varvara Petrovna.) "I'm rummaging in the libraries,

collating, copying, rushing about. I've visited the professors. I have

renewed my acquaintance with the delightful Dundasov family. What a

charming creature Lizaveta Nikolaevna is even now! She sends you her

greetings. Her young husband and three nephews are all in Berlin. I

sit up talking till daybreak with the young people and we have almost

Athenian evenings, Athenian, I mean, only in their intellectual subtlety

and refinement. Everything is in noble style; a great deal of music,

Spanish airs, dreams of the regeneration of all humanity, ideas

of eternal beauty, of the Sistine Madonna, light interspersed with

darkness, but there are spots even on the sun! Oh, my friend, my noble,

faithful friend! In heart I am with you and am yours; with you alone,

always, _en tout pays_, even in _le pays de Makar et de ses veaux_, of

which we often used to talk in agitation in Petersburg, do you remember,

before we came away. I think of it with a smile. Crossing the frontier I

felt myself in safety, a sensation, strange and new, for the first time

after so many years"--and so on and so on.

"Come, it's all nonsense!" Varvara Petrovna commented, folding up that

letter too. "If he's up till daybreak with his Athenian nights, he isn't

at his books for twelve hours a day. Was he drunk when he wrote it?

That Dundasov woman dares to send me greetings! But there, let him amuse

himself!"

The phrase "_dans le pays de Makar et de ses veaux_" meant: "wherever

Makar may drive his calves." Stepan Trofimovitch sometimes purposely

translated Russian proverbs and traditional sayings into French in the

most stupid way, though no doubt he was able to understand and translate

them better. But he did it from a feeling that it was chic, and thought

it witty.

But he did not amuse himself for long. He could not hold out for four

months, and was soon flying back to Skvoreshniki. His last letters

consisted of nothing but outpourings of the most sentimental love for

his absent friend, and were literally wet with tears. There are natures

extremely attached to home like lap-dogs. The meeting of the friends was

enthusiastic. Within two days everything was as before and even duller

than before. "My friend," Stepan Trofimovitch said to me a fortnight

after, in dead secret, "I have discovered something awful for me...

something new: _je suis un simple_ dependent, _et rien de plus! Mais

r-r-rien de plus._"

VIII

After this we had a period of stagnation which lasted nine years.

The hysterical outbreaks and sobbings on my shoulder that recurred at

regular intervals did not in the least mar our prosperity. I wonder that

Stepan Trofimovitch did not grow stout during this period. His nose was

a little redder, and his manner had gained in urbanity, that was all. By

degrees a circle of friends had formed around him, although it was never

a very large one. Though Varvara Petrovna had little to do with the

circle, yet we all recognised her as our patroness. After the lesson she

had received in Petersburg, she settled down in our town for good. In

winter she lived in her town house and spent the summer on her estate

in the neighbourhood. She had never enjoyed so much consequence and

prestige in our provincial society as during the last seven years of

this period, that is up to the time of the appointment of our present

governor. Our former governor, the mild Ivan Ossipovitch, who will never

be forgotten among us, was a near relation of Varvara Petrovna's, and

had at one time been under obligations to her. His wife trembled at the

very thought of displeasing her, while the homage paid her by provincial

society was carried almost to a pitch that suggested idolatry. So Stepan

Trofimovitch, too, had a good time. He was a member of the club, lost at

cards majestically, and was everywhere treated with respect, though

many people regarded him only as a "learned man." Later on, when Varvara

Petrovna allowed him to live in a separate house, we enjoyed greater

freedom than before. Twice a week we used to meet at his house. We were

a merry party, especially when he was not sparing of the champagne. The

wine came from the shop of the same Andreev. The bill was paid twice

a year by Varvara Petrovna, and on the day it was paid Stepan

Trofimovitch almost invariably suffered from an attack of his "summer

cholera."

One of the first members of our circle was Liputin, an elderly

provincial official, and a great liberal, who was reputed in the town

to be an atheist. He had married for the second time a young and pretty

wife with a dowry, and had, besides, three grown-up daughters. He

brought up his family in the fear of God, and kept a tight hand over

them. He was extremely stingy, and out of his salary had bought himself

a house and amassed a fortune. He was an uncomfortable sort of man, and

had not been in the service. He was not much respected in the town, and

was not received in the best circles. Moreover, he was a scandal-monger,

and had more than once had to smart for his back-biting, for which he

had been badly punished by an officer, and again by a country gentleman,

the respectable head of a family. But we liked his wit, his inquiring

mind, his peculiar, malicious liveliness. Varvara Petrovna disliked him,

but he always knew how to make up to her.

Nor did she care for Shatov, who became one of our circle during the

last years of this period. Shatov had been a student and had been

expelled from the university after some disturbance. In his childhood he

had been a student of Stepan Trofimovitch's and was by birth a serf of

Varvara Petrovna's, the son of a former valet of hers, Pavel Fyodoritch,

and was greatly indebted to her bounty. She disliked him for his pride

and ingratitude and could never forgive him for not having come straight

to her on his expulsion from the university. On the contrary he had not

even answered the letter she had expressly sent him at the time, and

preferred to be a drudge in the family of a merchant of the new style,

with whom he went abroad, looking after his children more in the

position of a nurse than of a tutor. He was very eager to travel at the

time. The children had a governess too, a lively young Russian lady, who

also became one of the household on the eve of their departure, and

had been engaged chiefly because she was so cheap. Two months later the

merchant turned her out of the house for "free thinking." Shatov took

himself off after her and soon afterwards married her in Geneva.

They lived together about three weeks, and then parted as free people

recognising no bonds, though, no doubt, also through poverty. He

wandered about Europe alone for a long time afterwards, living God knows

how; he is said to have blacked boots in the street, and to have been a

porter in some dockyard. At last, a year before, he had returned to his

native place among us and settled with an old aunt, whom he buried a

month later. His sister Dasha, who had also been brought up by Varvara

Petrovna, was a favourite of hers, and treated with respect and

consideration in her house. He saw his sister rarely and was not on

intimate terms with her. In our circle he was always sullen, and never

talkative; but from time to time, when his convictions were touched

upon, he became morbidly irritable and very unrestrained in his

language.

"One has to tie Shatov up and then argue with him," Stepan Trofimovitch

would sometimes say in joke, but he liked him.

Shatov had radically changed some of his former socialistic convictions

abroad and had rushed to the opposite extreme. He was one of those

idealistic beings common in Russia, who are suddenly struck by some

overmastering idea which seems, as it were, to crush them at once, and

sometimes forever. They are never equal to coping with it, but put

passionate faith in it, and their whole life passes afterwards, as it

were, in the last agonies under the weight of the stone that has fallen

upon them and half crushed them. In appearance Shatov was in complete

harmony with his convictions: he was short, awkward, had a shock of

flaxen hair, broad shoulders, thick lips, very thick overhanging white

eyebrows, a wrinkled forehead, and a hostile, obstinately downcast, as

it were shamefaced, expression in his eyes. His hair was always in a

wild tangle and stood up in a shock which nothing could smooth. He was

seven- or eight-and-twenty.

"I no longer wonder that his wife ran away from him," Varvara Petrovna

enunciated on one occasion after gazing intently at him. He tried to be

neat in his dress, in spite of his extreme poverty. He refrained again

from appealing to Varvara Petrovna, and struggled along as best he

could, doing various jobs for tradespeople. At one time he served in a

shop, at another he was on the point of going as an assistant clerk on a

freight steamer, but he fell ill just at the time of sailing. It is

hard to imagine what poverty he was capable of enduring without thinking

about it at all. After his illness Varvara Petrovna sent him a hundred

roubles, anonymously and in secret. He found out the secret, however,

and after some reflection took the money and went to Varvara Petrovna to

thank her. She received him with warmth, but on this occasion, too,

he shamefully disappointed her. He only stayed five minutes, staring

blankly at the ground and smiling stupidly in profound silence, and

suddenly, at the most interesting point, without listening to what

she was saying, he got up, made an uncouth sideways bow, helpless

with confusion, caught against the lady's expensive inlaid work-table,

upsetting it on the floor and smashing it to atoms, and walked out

nearly dead with shame. Liputin blamed him severely afterwards for

having accepted the hundred roubles and having even gone to thank

Varvara Petrovna for them, instead of having returned the money with

contempt, because it had come from his former despotic mistress. He

lived in solitude on the outskirts of the town, and did not like any

of us to go and see him. He used to turn up invariably at Stepan

Trofimovitch's evenings, and borrowed newspapers and books from him.

There was another young man who always came, one Virginsky, a clerk in

the service here, who had something in common with Shatov, though on

the surface he seemed his complete opposite in every respect. He was a

"family man" too. He was a pathetic and very quiet young man though

he was thirty; he had considerable education though he was chiefly

self-taught. He was poor, married, and in the service, and supported the

aunt and sister of his wife. His wife and all the ladies of his family

professed the very latest convictions, but in rather a crude form.

It was a case of "an idea dragged forth into the street," as Stepan

Trofimovitch had expressed it upon a former occasion. They got it

all out of books, and at the first hint coming from any of our little

progressive corners in Petersburg they were prepared to throw anything

overboard, so soon as they were advised to do so. Madame Virginsky

practised as a midwife in the town. She had lived a long while

in Petersburg as a girl. Virginsky himself was a man of rare

single-heartedness, and I have seldom met more honest fervour.

"I will never, never, abandon these bright hopes," he used to say to me

with shining eyes. Of these "bright hopes" he always spoke quietly, in

a blissful half-whisper, as it were secretly. He was rather tall, but

extremely thin and narrow-shouldered, and had extraordinarily lank hair

of a reddish hue. All Stepan Trofimovitch's condescending gibes at

some of his opinions he accepted mildly, answered him sometimes very

seriously, and often nonplussed him. Stepan Trofimovitch treated him

very kindly, and indeed he behaved like a father to all of us. "You are

all half-hearted chickens," he observed to Virginsky in joke. "All

who are like you, though in you, Virginsky, I have not observed that

narrow-mindedness I found in Petersburg, _chez ces séminaristes_. But

you're a half-hatched chicken all the same. Shatov would give anything

to hatch out, but he's half-hatched too."

"And I?" Liputin inquired.

"You're simply the golden mean which will get on anywhere in its own

way." Liputin was offended.

The story was told of Virginsky, and it was unhappily only too true,

that before his wife had spent a year in lawful wedlock with him she

announced that he was superseded and that she preferred Lebyadkin. This

Lebyadkin, a stranger to the town, turned out afterwards to be a very

dubious character, and not a retired captain as he represented himself

to be. He could do nothing but twist his moustache, drink, and chatter

the most inept nonsense that can possibly be imagined. This fellow, who

was utterly lacking in delicacy, at once settled in his house, glad to

live at another man's expense, ate and slept there and came, in the end,

to treating the master of the house with condescension. It was asserted

that when Virginsky's wife had announced to him that he was superseded

he said to her:

"My dear, hitherto I have only loved you, but now I respect you," but I

doubt whether this renunciation, worthy of ancient Rome, was ever really

uttered. On the contrary they say that he wept violently. A fortnight

after he was superseded, all of them, in a "family party," went one day

for a picnic to a wood outside the town to drink tea with their friends.

Virginsky was in a feverishly lively mood and took part in the dances.

But suddenly, without any preliminary quarrel, he seized the giant

Lebyadkin with both hands, by the hair, just as the latter was dancing

a can-can solo, pushed him down, and began dragging him along with

shrieks, shouts, and tears. The giant was so panic-stricken that he did

not attempt to defend himself, and hardly uttered a sound all the time

he was being dragged along. But afterwards he resented it with all the

heat of an honourable man. Virginsky spent a whole night on his knees

begging his wife's forgiveness. But this forgiveness was not granted, as

he refused to apologise to Lebyadkin; moreover, he was upbraided for the

meanness of his ideas and his foolishness, the latter charge based on

the fact that he knelt down in the interview with his wife. The captain

soon disappeared and did not reappear in our town till quite lately,

when he came with his sister, and with entirely different aims; but

of him later. It was no wonder that the poor young husband sought our

society and found comfort in it. But he never spoke of his home-life to

us. On one occasion only, returning with me from Stepan Trofimovitch's,

he made a remote allusion to his position, but clutching my hand at once

he cried ardently:

"It's of no consequence. It's only a personal incident. It's no

hindrance to the 'cause,' not the slightest!"

Stray guests visited our circle too; a Jew, called Lyamshin, and a

Captain Kartusov came. An old gentleman of inquiring mind used to come

at one time, but he died. Liputin brought an exiled Polish priest called

Slontsevsky, and for a time we received him on principle, but afterwards

we didn't keep it up.

IX

At one time it was reported about the town that our little circle was a

hotbed of nihilism, profligacy, and godlessness, and the rumour gained

more and more strength. And yet we did nothing but indulge in the most

harmless, agreeable, typically Russian, light-hearted liberal chatter.

"The higher liberalism" and the "higher liberal," that is, a liberal

without any definite aim, is only possible in Russia.

Stepan Trofimovitch, like every witty man, needed a listener, and,

besides that, he needed the consciousness that he was fulfilling the

lofty duty of disseminating ideas. And finally he had to have someone

to drink champagne with, and over the wine to exchange light-hearted

views of a certain sort, about Russia and the "Russian spirit," about

God in general, and the "Russian God" in particular, to repeat for the

hundredth time the same Russian scandalous stories that every one knew

and every one repeated. We had no distaste for the gossip of the town

which often, indeed, led us to the most severe and loftily moral

verdicts. We fell into generalising about humanity, made stern

reflections on the future of Europe and mankind in general,

authoritatively predicted that after Cæsarism France would at once sink

into the position of a second-rate power, and were firmly convinced that

this might terribly easily and quickly come to pass. We had long ago

predicted that the Pope would play the part of a simple archbishop in

a united Italy, and were firmly convinced that this thousand-year-old

question had, in our age of humanitarianism, industry, and railways,

become a trifling matter. But, of course, "Russian higher liberalism"

could not look at the question in any other way. Stepan Trofimovitch

sometimes talked of art, and very well, though rather abstractly. He

sometimes spoke of the friends of his youth--all names noteworthy in

the history of Russian progress. He talked of them with emotion and

reverence, though sometimes with envy. If we were very much bored, the

Jew, Lyamshin (a little post-office clerk), a wonderful performer on

the piano, sat down to play, and in the intervals would imitate a pig,

a thunderstorm, a confinement with the first cry of the baby, and so on,

and so on; it was only for this that he was invited, indeed. If we had

drunk a great deal--and that did happen sometimes, though not often--we

flew into raptures, and even on one occasion sang the "Marseillaise" in

chorus to the accompaniment of Lyamshin, though I don't know how it

went off. The great day, the nineteenth of February, we welcomed

enthusiastically, and for a long time beforehand drank toasts in its

honour. But that was long ago, before the advent of Shatov or Virginsky,

when Stepan Trofimovitch was still living in the same house with Varvara

Petrovna. For some time before the great day Stepan Trofimovitch

fell into the habit of muttering to himself well-known, though rather

far-fetched, lines which must have been written by some liberal

landowner of the past:

_"The peasant with his axe is coming,_

_Something terrible will happen."_

Something of that sort, I don't remember the exact words. Varvara

Petrovna overheard him on one occasion, and crying, "Nonsense,

nonsense!" she went out of the room in a rage. Liputin, who happened to

be present, observed malignantly to Stepan Trofimovitch:

"It'll be a pity if their former serfs really do some mischief to

_messieurs les_ landowners to celebrate the occasion," and he drew his

forefinger round his throat.

"_Cher ami,_" Stepan Trofimovitch observed, "believe me that--this (he

repeated the gesture) will never be of any use to our landowners nor to

any of us in general. We shall never be capable of organising anything

even without our heads, though our heads hinder our understanding more

than anything."

I may observe that many people among us anticipated that something

extraordinary, such as Liputin predicted, would take place on the day

of the emancipation, and those who held this view were the so-called

"authorities" on the peasantry and the government. I believe Stepan

Trofimovitch shared this idea, so much so that almost on the eve of the

great day he began asking Varvara Petrovna's leave to go abroad; in fact

he began to be uneasy. But the great day passed, and some time

passed after it, and the condescending smile reappeared on Stepan

Trofimovitch's lips. In our presence he delivered himself of some

noteworthy thoughts on the character of the Russian in general, and the

Russian peasant in particular.

"Like hasty people we have been in too great a hurry with our peasants,"

he said in conclusion of a series of remarkable utterances. "We have

made them the fashion, and a whole section of writers have for several

years treated them as though they were newly discovered curiosities. We

have put laurel-wreaths on lousy heads. The Russian village has given us

only 'Kamarinsky' in a thousand years. A remarkable Russian poet who was

also something of a wit, seeing the great Rachel on the stage for the

first time cried in ecstasy, 'I wouldn't exchange Rachel for a peasant!'

I am prepared to go further. I would give all the peasants in Russia

for one Rachel. It's high time to look things in the face more

soberly, and not to mix up our national rustic pitch with _bouquet de

l'Impératrice._"

Liputin agreed at once, but remarked that one had to perjure oneself and

praise the peasant all the same for the sake of being progressive, that

even ladies in good society shed tears reading "Poor Anton," and that

some of them even wrote from Paris to their bailiffs that they were,

henceforward, to treat the peasants as humanely as possible.

It happened, and as ill-luck would have it just after the rumours of the

Anton Petrov affair had reached us, that there was some disturbance

in our province too, only about ten miles from Skvoreshniki, so that a

detachment of soldiers was sent down in a hurry.

This time Stepan Trofimovitch was so much upset that he even frightened

us. He cried out at the club that more troops were needed, that they

ought to be telegraphed for from another province; he rushed off to the

governor to protest that he had no hand in it, begged him not to allow

his name on account of old associations to be brought into it, and

offered to write about his protest to the proper quarter in Petersburg.

Fortunately it all passed over quickly and ended in nothing, but I was

surprised at Stepan Trofimovitch at the time.

Three years later, as every one knows, people were beginning to talk

of nationalism, and "public opinion" first came upon the scene. Stepan

Trofimovitch laughed a great deal.

"My friends," he instructed us, "if our nationalism has 'dawned' as

they keep repeating in the papers--it's still at school, at some German

'Peterschule,' sitting over a German book and repeating its everlasting

German lesson, and its German teacher will make it go down on its knees

when he thinks fit. I think highly of the German teacher. But nothing

has happened and nothing of the kind has dawned and everything is going

on in the old way, that is, as ordained by God. To my thinking that

should be enough for Russia, _pour notre Sainte Russie_. Besides, all this

Slavism and nationalism is too old to be new. Nationalism, if you like,

has never existed among us except as a distraction for gentlemen's

clubs, and Moscow ones at that. I'm not talking of the days of Igor, of

course. And besides it all comes of idleness. Everything in Russia comes

of idleness, everything good and fine even. It all springs from the

charming, cultured, whimsical idleness of our gentry! I'm ready to

repeat it for thirty thousand years. We don't know how to live by our

own labour. And as for the fuss they're making now about the 'dawn'

of some sort of public opinion, has it so suddenly dropped from heaven

without any warning? How is it they don't understand that before we

can have an opinion of our own we must have work, our own work, our own

initiative in things, our own experience. Nothing is to be gained for

nothing. If we work we shall have an opinion of our own. But as we

never shall work, our opinions will be formed for us by those who have

hitherto done the work instead of us, that is, as always, Europe, the

everlasting Germans--our teachers for the last two centuries. Moreover,

Russia is too big a tangle for us to unravel alone without the Germans,

and without hard work. For the last twenty years I've been sounding the

alarm, and the summons to work. I've given up my life to that appeal,

and, in my folly I put faith in it. Now I have lost faith in it, but I

sound the alarm still, and shall sound it to the tomb. I will pull at

the bell-ropes until they toll for my own requiem!"

"Alas! We could do nothing but assent. We applauded our teacher and with

what warmth, indeed! And, after all, my friends, don't we still hear

to-day, every hour, at every step, the same "charming," "clever,"

"liberal," old Russian nonsense? Our teacher believed in God.

"I can't understand why they make me out an infidel here," he used to

say sometimes. "I believe in God, _mais distinguons_, I believe in Him as

a Being who is conscious of Himself in me only. I cannot believe as my

Nastasya (the servant) or like some country gentleman who believes 'to

be on the safe side,' or like our dear Shatov--but no, Shatov doesn't

come into it. Shatov believes 'on principle,' like a Moscow Slavophil.

As for Christianity, for all my genuine respect for it, I'm not a

Christian. I am more of an antique pagan, like the great Goethe, or

like an ancient Greek. The very fact that Christianity has failed to

understand woman is enough, as George Sand has so splendidly shown in

one of her great novels. As for the bowings, fasting and all the rest

of it, I don't understand what they have to do with me. However busy the

informers may be here, I don't care to become a Jesuit. In the year 1847

Byelinsky, who was abroad, sent his famous letter to Gogol, and warmly

reproached him for believing in some sort of God. _Entre nous soit dit,_ I

can imagine nothing more comic than the moment when Gogol (the Gogol of

that period!) read that phrase, and... the whole letter! But dismissing

the humorous aspect, and, as I am fundamentally in agreement, I point to

them and say--these were men! They knew how to love their people, they

knew how to suffer for them, they knew how to sacrifice everything for

them, yet they knew how to differ from them when they ought, and did not

filch certain ideas from them. Could Byelinsky have sought salvation

in Lenten oil, or peas with radish!..." But at this point Shatov

interposed.

"Those men of yours never loved the people, they didn't suffer for them,

and didn't sacrifice anything for them, though they may have amused

themselves by imagining it!" he growled sullenly, looking down, and

moving impatiently in his chair.

"They didn't love the people!" yelled Stepan Trofimovitch. "Oh, how they

loved Russia!"

"Neither Russia nor the people!" Shatov yelled too, with flashing eyes.

"You can't love what you don't know and they had no conception of the

Russian people. All of them peered at the Russian people through their

fingers, and you do too; Byelinsky especially: from that very letter to

Gogol one can see it. Byelinsky, like the Inquisitive Man in Krylov's

fable, did not notice the elephant in the museum of curiosities, but

concentrated his whole attention on the French Socialist beetles; he did

not get beyond them. And yet perhaps he was cleverer than any of you.

You've not only overlooked the people, you've taken up an attitude of

disgusting contempt for them, if only because you could not imagine any

but the French people, the Parisians indeed, and were ashamed that the

Russians were not like them. That's the naked truth. And he who has

no people has no God. You may be sure that all who cease to understand

their own people and lose their connection with them at once lose to

the same extent the faith of their fathers, and become atheistic or

indifferent. I'm speaking the truth! This is a fact which will be

realised. That's why all of you and all of us now are either beastly

atheists or careless, dissolute imbeciles, and nothing more. And you

too, Stepan Trofimovitch, I don't make an exception of you at all! In

fact, it is on your account I am speaking, let me tell you that!"

As a rule, after uttering such monologues (which happened to him pretty

frequently) Shatov snatched up his cap and rushed to the door, in the

full conviction that everything was now over, and that he had cut short

all friendly relations with Stepan Trofimovitch forever. But the latter

always succeeded in stopping him in time.

"Hadn't we better make it up, Shatov, after all these endearments," he

would say, benignly holding out his hand to him from his arm-chair.

Shatov, clumsy and bashful, disliked sentimentality. Externally he was

rough, but inwardly, I believe, he had great delicacy. Although he often

went too far, he was the first to suffer for it. Muttering something

between his teeth in response to Stepan Trofimovitch's appeal, and

shuffling with his feet like a bear, he gave a sudden and unexpected

smile, put down his cap, and sat down in the same chair as before, with

his eyes stubbornly fixed on the ground. Wine was, of course, brought

in, and Stepan Trofimovitch proposed some suitable toast, for instance

the memory of some leading man of the past.

CHAPTER II. PRINCE HARRY. MATCHMAKING.

I

THERE WAS ANOTHER being in the world to whom Varvara Petrovna was as

much attached as she was to Stepan Trofimovitch, her only son, Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch Stavrogin. It was to undertake his education that Stepan

Trofimovitch had been engaged. The boy was at that time eight years old,

and his frivolous father, General Stavrogin, was already living apart

from Varvara Petrovna, so that the child grew up entirely in his

mother's care. To do Stepan Trofimovitch justice, he knew how to win his

pupil's heart. The whole secret of this lay in the fact that he was a

child himself. I was not there in those days, and he continually felt

the want of a real friend. He did not hesitate to make a friend of this

little creature as soon as he had grown a little older. It somehow came

to pass quite naturally that there seemed to be no discrepancy of age

between them. More than once he awaked his ten- or eleven-year-old

friend at night, simply to pour out his wounded feelings and weep before

him, or to tell him some family secret, without realising that this was

an outrageous proceeding. They threw themselves into each other's arms

and wept. The boy knew that his mother loved him very much, but I doubt

whether he cared much for her. She talked little to him and did not

often interfere with him, but he was always morbidly conscious of her

intent, searching eyes fixed upon him. Yet the mother confided his whole

instruction and moral education to Stepan Trofimovitch. At that time her

faith in him was unshaken. One can't help believing that the tutor had

rather a bad influence on his pupil's nerves. When at sixteen he was

taken to a lyceum he was fragile-looking and pale, strangely quiet and

dreamy. (Later on he was distinguished by great physical strength.)

One must assume too that the friends went on weeping at night, throwing

themselves in each other's arms, though their tears were not always due

to domestic difficulties. Stepan Trofimovitch succeeded in reaching

the deepest chords in his pupil's heart, and had aroused in him a vague

sensation of that eternal, sacred yearning which some elect souls can

never give up for cheap gratification when once they have tasted and

known it. (There are some connoisseurs who prize this yearning more than

the most complete satisfaction of it, if such were possible.) But in any

case it was just as well that the pupil and the preceptor were, though

none too soon, parted.

For the first two years the lad used to come home from the lyceum

for the holidays. While Varvara Petrovna and Stepan Trofimovitch were

staying in Petersburg he was sometimes present at the literary evenings

at his mother's, he listened and looked on. He spoke little, and was

quiet and shy as before. His manner to Stepan Trofimovitch was as

affectionately attentive as ever, but there was a shade of reserve in

it. He unmistakably avoided distressing, lofty subjects or reminiscences

of the past. By his mother's wish he entered the army on completing

the school course, and soon received a commission in one of the most

brilliant regiments of the Horse Guards. He did not come to show himself

to his mother in his uniform, and his letters from Petersburg began to

be infrequent. Varvara Petrovna sent him money without stint, though

after the emancipation the revenue from her estate was so diminished

that at first her income was less than half what it had been before. She

had, however, a considerable sum laid by through years of economy.

She took great interest in her son's success in the highest Petersburg

society. Where she had failed, the wealthy young officer with

expectations succeeded. He renewed acquaintances which she had hardly

dared to dream of, and was welcomed everywhere with pleasure. But very

soon rather strange rumours reached Varvara Petrovna. The young man

had suddenly taken to riotous living with a sort of frenzy. Not that he

gambled or drank too much; there was only talk of savage recklessness,

of running over people in the street with his horses, of brutal conduct

to a lady of good society with whom he had a liaison and whom he

afterwards publicly insulted. There was a callous nastiness about this

affair. It was added, too, that he had developed into a regular bully,

insulting people for the mere pleasure of insulting them. Varvara

Petrovna was greatly agitated and distressed. Stepan Trofimovitch

assured her that this was only the first riotous effervescence of a too

richly endowed nature, that the storm would subside and that this was

only like the youth of Prince Harry, who caroused with Falstaff, Poins,

and Mrs. Quickly, as described by Shakespeare.

This time Varvara Petrovna did not cry out, "Nonsense, nonsense!" as she

was very apt to do in later years in response to Stepan Trofimovitch. On

the contrary she listened very eagerly, asked him to explain this theory

more exactly, took up Shakespeare herself and with great attention read

the immortal chronicle. But it did not comfort her, and indeed she did

not find the resemblance very striking. With feverish impatience she

awaited answers to some of her letters. She had not long to wait for

them. The fatal news soon reached her that "Prince Harry" had been

involved in two duels almost at once, was entirely to blame for both of

them, had killed one of his adversaries on the spot and had maimed the

other and was awaiting his trial in consequence. The case ended in his

being degraded to the ranks, deprived of the rights of a nobleman, and

transferred to an infantry line regiment, and he only escaped worse

punishment by special favour.

In 1863 he somehow succeeded in distinguishing himself; he received a

cross, was promoted to be a non-commissioned officer, and rose

rapidly to the rank of an officer. During this period Varvara Petrovna

despatched perhaps hundreds of letters to the capital, full of prayers

and supplications. She even stooped to some humiliation in this

extremity. After his promotion the young man suddenly resigned his

commission, but he did not come back to Skvoreshniki again, and gave up

writing to his mother altogether. They learned by roundabout means that

he was back in Petersburg, but that he was not to be met in the same

society as before; he seemed to be in hiding. They found out that he was

living in strange company, associating with the dregs of the population

of Petersburg, with slip-shod government clerks, discharged military

men, beggars of the higher class, and drunkards of all sorts--that he

visited their filthy families, spent days and nights in dark slums and

all sorts of low haunts, that he had sunk very low, that he was in rags,

and that apparently he liked it. He did not ask his mother for money,

he had his own little estate--once the property of his father, General

Stavrogin, which yielded at least some revenue, and which, it was

reported, he had let to a German from Saxony. At last his mother

besought him to come to her, and "Prince Harry" made his appearance

in our town. I had never set eyes on him before, but now I got a very

distinct impression of him. He was a very handsome young man of

five-and-twenty, and I must own I was impressed by him. I had expected

to see a dirty ragamuffin, sodden with drink and debauchery. He was on

the contrary, the most elegant gentleman I had ever met, extremely well

dressed, with an air and manner only to be found in a man accustomed to

culture and refinement. I was not the only person surprised. It was a

surprise to all the townspeople to whom, of course, young Stavrogin's

whole biography was well known in its minutest details, though one could

not imagine how they had got hold of them, and, what was still more

surprising, half of their stories about him turned out to be true.

All our ladies were wild over the new visitor. They were sharply divided

into two parties, one of which adored him while the other half regarded

him with a hatred that was almost blood-thirsty: but both were crazy

about him. Some of them were particularly fascinated by the idea that he

had perhaps a fateful secret hidden in his soul; others were positively

delighted at the fact that he was a murderer. It appeared too that

he had had a very good education and was indeed a man of considerable

culture. No great acquirements were needed, of course, to astonish us.

But he could judge also of very interesting everyday affairs, and, what

was of the utmost value, he judged of them with remarkable good sense. I

must mention as a peculiar fact that almost from the first day we all of

us thought him a very sensible fellow. He was not very talkative, he was

elegant without exaggeration, surprisingly modest, and at the same time

bold and self-reliant, as none of us were. Our dandies gazed at him with

envy, and were completely eclipsed by him. His face, too, impressed me.

His hair was of a peculiarly intense black, his light-coloured eyes were

peculiarly light and calm, his complexion was peculiarly soft and white,

the red in his cheeks was too bright and clear, his teeth were like

pearls, and his lips like coral--one would have thought that he must

be a paragon of beauty, yet at the same time there seemed something

repellent about him. It was said that his face suggested a mask; so much

was said though, among other things they talked of his extraordinary

physical strength. He was rather tall. Varvara Petrovna looked at him

with pride, yet with continual uneasiness. He spent about six months

among us--listless, quiet, rather morose. He made his appearance in

society, and with unfailing propriety performed all the duties demanded

by our provincial etiquette. He was related, on his father's side, to

the governor, and was received by the latter as a near kinsman. But a

few months passed and the wild beast showed his claws.

I may observe by the way, in parenthesis, that Ivan Ossipovitch, our

dear mild governor, was rather like an old woman, though he was of good

family and highly connected--which explains the fact that he remained so

long among us, though he steadily avoided all the duties of his office.

From his munificence and hospitality he ought rather to have been a

marshal of nobility of the good old days than a governor in such busy

times as ours. It was always said in the town that it was not he, but

Varvara Petrovna who governed the province. Of course this was said

sarcastically; however, it was certainly a falsehood. And, indeed, much

wit was wasted on the subject among us. On the contrary, in later years,

Varvara Petrovna purposely and consciously withdrew from anything like

a position of authority, and, in spite of the extraordinary respect

in which she was held by the whole province, voluntarily confined her

influence within strict limits set up by herself. Instead of these

higher responsibilities she suddenly took up the management of her

estate, and, within two or three years, raised the revenue from it

almost to what it had yielded in the past. Giving up her former romantic

impulses (trips to Petersburg, plans for founding a magazine, and so

on) she began to be careful and to save money. She kept even Stepan

Trofimovitch at a distance, allowing him to take lodgings in another

house (a change for which he had long been worrying her under various

pretexts). Little by little Stepan Trofimovitch began to call her a

prosaic woman, or more jestingly, "My prosaic friend." I need hardly say

he only ventured on such jests in an extremely respectful form, and on

rare, and carefully chosen, occasions.

All of us in her intimate circle felt--Stepan Trofimovitch more acutely

than any of us--that her son had come to her almost, as it were, as a

new hope, and even as a sort of new aspiration. Her passion for her son

dated from the time of his successes in Petersburg society, and grew

more intense from the moment that he was degraded in the army. Yet she

was evidently afraid of him, and seemed like a slave in his presence.

It could be seen that she was afraid of something vague and mysterious

which she could not have put into words, and she often stole searching

glances at "Nicolas," scrutinising him reflectively... and behold--the

wild beast suddenly showed his claws.

II

Suddenly, apropos of nothing, our prince was guilty of incredible

outrages upon various persons and, what was most striking these outrages

were utterly unheard of, quite inconceivable, unlike anything commonly

done, utterly silly and mischievous, quite unprovoked and objectless.

One of the most respected of our club members, on our committee of

management, Pyotr Pavlovitch Gaganov, an elderly man of high rank in the

service, had formed the innocent habit of declaring vehemently on all

sorts of occasions: "No, you can't lead me by the nose!" Well, there

is no harm in that. But one day at the club, when he brought out this

phrase in connection with some heated discussion in the midst of a

little group of members (all persons of some consequence) Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch, who was standing on one side, alone and unnoticed,

suddenly went up to Pyotr Pavlovitch, took him unexpectedly and firmly

with two fingers by the nose, and succeeded in leading him two or three

steps across the room. He could have had no grudge against Mr. Gaganov.

It might be thought to be a mere schoolboy prank, though, of course, a

most unpardonable one. Yet, describing it afterwards, people said that

he looked almost dreamy at the very instant of the operation, "as though

he had gone out of his mind," but that was recalled and reflected upon

long afterwards. In the excitement of the moment all they recalled was

the minute after, when he certainly saw it all as it really was, and far

from being confused smiled gaily and maliciously "without the slightest

regret." There was a terrific outcry; he was surrounded. Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch kept turning round, looking about him, answering nobody,

and glancing curiously at the persons exclaiming around him. At last he

seemed suddenly, as it were, to sink into thought again--so at least it

was reported--frowned, went firmly up to the affronted Pyotr Pavlovitch,

and with evident vexation said in a rapid mutter:

"You must forgive me, of course... I really don't know what suddenly

came over me... it's silly."

The carelessness of his apology was almost equivalent to a fresh insult.

The outcry was greater than ever. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch shrugged his

shoulders and went away. All this was very stupid, to say nothing of its

gross indecency--

A calculated and premeditated indecency as it seemed at first sight--and

therefore a premeditated and utterly brutal insult to our whole society.

So it was taken to be by every one. We began by promptly and unanimously

striking young Stavrogin's name off the list of club members. Then it

was decided to send an appeal in the name of the whole club to the

governor, begging him at once (without waiting for the case to be

formally tried in court) to use "the administrative power entrusted to

him" to restrain this dangerous ruffian, "this duelling bully from the

capital, and so protect the tranquillity of all the gentry of our town

from injurious encroachments." It was added with angry resentment that

"a law might be found to control even Mr. Stavrogin." This phrase was

prepared by way of a thrust at the governor on account of Varvara

Petrovna. They elaborated it with relish. As ill luck would have it,

the governor was not in the town at the time. He had gone to a little

distance to stand godfather to the child of a very charming lady,

recently left a widow in an interesting condition. But it was known that

he would soon be back. In the meanwhile they got up a regular ovation

for the respected and insulted gentleman; people embraced and kissed

him; the whole town called upon him. It was even proposed to give a

subscription dinner in his honour, and they only gave up the idea at

his earnest request--reflecting possibly at last that the man had,

after all, been pulled by the nose and that that was really nothing

to congratulate him upon. Yet, how had it happened? How could it have

happened? It is remarkable that no one in the whole town put down this

savage act to madness. They must have been predisposed to expect such

actions from Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, even when he was sane. For my part

I don't know to this day how to explain it, in spite of the event that

quickly followed and apparently explained everything, and conciliated

every one. I will add also that, four years later, in reply to a

discreet question from me about the incident at the club, Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch answered, frowning: "I wasn't quite well at the time."

But there is no need to anticipate events.

The general outburst of hatred with which every one fell upon the

"ruffian and duelling bully from the capital" also struck me as curious.

They insisted on seeing an insolent design and deliberate intention to

insult our whole society at once. The truth was no one liked the fellow,

but, on the contrary, he had set every one against him--and one wonders

how. Up to the last incident he had never quarrelled with anyone, nor

insulted anyone, but was as courteous as a gentleman in a fashion-plate,

if only the latter were able to speak. I imagine that he was hated for

his pride. Even our ladies, who had begun by adoring him, railed against

him now, more loudly than the men. Varvara Petrovna was dreadfully

overwhelmed. She confessed afterwards to Stepan Trofimovitch that she

had had a foreboding of all this long before, that every day for the

last six months she had been expecting "just something of that sort,"

a remarkable admission on the part of his own mother. "It's begun!" she

thought to herself with a shudder. The morning after the incident at the

club she cautiously but firmly approached the subject with her son, but

the poor woman was trembling all over in spite of her firmness. She had

not slept all night and even went out early to Stepan Trofimovitch's

lodgings to ask his advice, and shed tears there, a thing which she had

never been known to do before anyone. She longed for "Nicolas" to say

something to her, to deign to give some explanation. Nikolay, who was

always so polite and respectful to his mother, listened to her for some

time scowling, but very seriously. He suddenly got up without saying

a word, kissed her hand and went away. That very evening, as though by

design, he perpetrated another scandal. It was of a more harmless and

ordinary character than the first. Yet, owing to the state of the public

mind, it increased the outcry in the town.

Our friend Liputin turned up and called on Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch

immediately after the latter's interview with his mother, and earnestly

begged for the honour of his company at a little party he was giving for

his wife's birthday that evening. Varvara Petrovna had long watched with

a pang at her heart her son's taste for such low company, but she had

not dared to speak of it to him. He had made several acquaintances

besides Liputin in the third rank of our society, and even in lower

depths--he had a propensity for making such friends. He had never been

in Liputin's house before, though he had met the man himself. He guessed

that Liputin's invitation now was the consequence of the previous day's

scandal, and that as a local liberal he was delighted at the scandal,

genuinely believing that that was the proper way to treat stewards at

the club, and that it was very well done. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch smiled

and promised to come.

A great number of guests had assembled. The company was not very

presentable, but very sprightly. Liputin, vain and envious, only

entertained visitors twice a year, but on those occasions he did

it without stint. The most honoured of the invited guests, Stepan

Trofimovitch, was prevented by illness from being present. Tea was

handed, and there were refreshments and vodka in plenty. Cards were

played at three tables, and while waiting for supper the young people

got up a dance. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch led out Madame Liputin--a very

pretty little woman who was dreadfully shy of him--took two turns round

the room with her, sat down beside her, drew her into conversation and

made her laugh. Noticing at last how pretty she was when she laughed, he

suddenly, before all the company, seized her round the waist and

kissed her on the lips two or three times with great relish. The poor

frightened lady fainted. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch took his hat and went

up to the husband, who stood petrified in the middle of the general

excitement. Looking at him he, too, became confused and muttering

hurriedly "Don't be angry," went away. Liputin ran after him in the

entry, gave him his fur-coat with his own hands, and saw him down the

stairs, bowing. But next day a rather amusing sequel followed this

comparatively harmless prank--a sequel from which Liputin gained some

credit, and of which he took the fullest possible advantage.

At ten o'clock in the morning Liputin's servant Agafya, an

easy-mannered, lively, rosy-cheeked peasant woman of thirty, made

her appearance at Stavrogin's house, with a message for Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch. She insisted on seeing "his honour himself." He had a

very bad headache, but he went out. Varvara Petrovna succeeded in being

present when the message was given.

"Sergay Vassilyevitch" (Liputin's name), Agafya rattled off briskly,

"bade me first of all give you his respectful greetings and ask after

your health, what sort of night your honour spent after yesterday's

doings, and how your honour feels now after yesterday's doings?"

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch smiled.

"Give him my greetings and thank him, and tell your master from me,

Agafya, that he's the most sensible man in the town."

"And he told me to answer that," Agafya caught him up still more

briskly, "that he knows that without your telling him, and wishes you

the same."

"Really! But how could he tell what I should say to you?"

"I can't say in what way he could tell, but when I had set off and had

gone right down the street, I heard something, and there he was, running

after me without his cap. 'I say, Agafya, if by any chance he says to

you, "Tell your master that he has more sense than all the town," you

tell him at once, don't forget, "The master himself knows that very

well, and wishes you the same."'"

III

At last the interview with the governor took place too. Our dear, mild,

Ivan Ossipovitch had only just returned and only just had time to hear

the angry complaint from the club. There was no doubt that something

must be done, but he was troubled. The hospitable old man seemed also

rather afraid of his young kinsman. He made up his mind, however, to

induce him to apologise to the club and to his victim in satisfactory

form, and, if required, by letter, and then to persuade him to leave us

for a time, travelling, for instance, to improve his mind, in Italy, or

in fact anywhere abroad. In the waiting-room in which on this occasion

he received Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch (who had been at other times

privileged as a relation to wander all over the house unchecked),

Alyosha Telyatnikov, a clerk of refined manners, who was also a member

of the governor's household, was sitting in a corner opening envelopes

at a table, and in the next room, at the window nearest to the door, a

stout and sturdy colonel, a former friend and colleague of the governor,

was sitting alone reading the Golos, paying no attention, of course,

to what was taking place in the waiting-room; in fact, he had his back

turned. Ivan Ossipovitch approached the subject in a roundabout way,

almost in a whisper, but kept getting a little muddled. Nikolay looked

anything but cordial, not at all as a relation should. He was pale and

sat looking down and continually moving his eyebrows as though trying to

control acute pain.

"You have a kind heart and a generous one, Nicolas," the old man put in

among other things, "you're a man of great culture, you've grown up in

the highest circles, and here too your behaviour has hitherto been a

model, which has been a great consolation to your mother, who is so

precious to all of us.... And now again everything has appeared in such

an unaccountable light, so detrimental to all! I speak as a friend of

your family, as an old man who loves you sincerely and a relation, at

whose words you cannot take offence.... Tell me, what drives you to such

reckless proceedings so contrary to all accepted rules and habits? What

can be the meaning of such acts which seem almost like outbreaks of

delirium?"

Nikolay listened with vexation and impatience. All at once there was a

gleam of something sly and mocking in his eyes.

"I'll tell you what drives me to it," he said sullenly, and looking

round him he bent down to Ivan Ossipovitch's ear. The refined Alyosha

Telyatnikov moved three steps farther away towards the window, and the

colonel coughed over the Golos. Poor Ivan Ossipovitch hurriedly and

trustfully inclined his ear; he was exceedingly curious. And then

something utterly incredible, though on the other side only too

unmistakable, took place. The old man suddenly felt that, instead of

telling him some interesting secret, Nikolay had seized the upper

part of his ear between his teeth and was nipping it rather hard. He

shuddered, and breath failed him.

"Nicolas, this is beyond a joke!" he moaned mechanically in a voice not

his own.

Alyosha and the colonel had not yet grasped the situation, besides they

couldn't see, and fancied up to the end that the two were whispering

together; and yet the old man's desperate face alarmed them. They looked

at one another with wide-open eyes, not knowing whether to rush to his

assistance as agreed or to wait. Nikolay noticed this perhaps, and bit

the harder.

"Nicolas! Nicolas!" his victim moaned again, "come... you've had your

joke, that's enough!"

In another moment the poor governor would certainly have died of terror;

but the monster had mercy on him, and let go his ear. The old man's

deadly terror lasted for a full minute, and it was followed by a sort of

fit. Within half an hour Nikolay was arrested and removed for the time

to the guard-room, where he was confined in a special cell, with a

special sentinel at the door. This decision was a harsh one, but

our mild governor was so angry that he was prepared to take the

responsibility even if he had to face Varvara Petrovna. To the general

amazement, when this lady arrived at the governor's in haste and in

nervous irritation to discuss the matter with him at once, she was

refused admittance, whereupon, without getting out of the carriage, she

returned home, unable to believe her senses.

And at last everything was explained! At two o'clock in the morning

the prisoner, who had till then been calm and had even slept, suddenly

became noisy, began furiously beating on the door with his fists,--with

unnatural strength wrenched the iron grating off the door, broke the

window, and cut his hands all over. When the officer on duty ran with

a detachment of men and the keys and ordered the cell to be opened

that they might rush in and bind the maniac, it appeared that he was

suffering from acute brain fever. He was taken home to his mother.

Everything was explained at once. All our three doctors gave it as their

opinion that the patient might well have been in a delirious state for

three days before, and that though he might have apparently been in

possession of full consciousness and cunning, yet he might have been

deprived of common sense and will, which was indeed borne out by the

facts. So it turned out that Liputin had guessed the truth sooner than

any one. Ivan Ossipovitch, who was a man of delicacy and feeling,

was completely abashed. But what was striking was that he, too, had

considered Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch capable of any mad action even when

in the full possession of his faculties. At the club, too, people were

ashamed and wondered how it was they had failed to "see the elephant"

and had missed the only explanation of all these marvels: there were,

of course, sceptics among them, but they could not long maintain their

position.

Nikolay was in bed for more than two months. A famous doctor was

summoned from Moscow for a consultation; the whole town called on

Varvara Petrovna. She forgave them. When in the spring Nikolay had

completely recovered and assented without discussion to his mother's

proposal that he should go for a tour to Italy, she begged him further

to pay visits of farewell to all the neighbours, and so far as possible

to apologise where necessary. Nikolay agreed with great alacrity. It

became known at the club that he had had a most delicate explanation

with Pyotr Pavlovitch Gaganov, at the house of the latter, who had been

completely satisfied with his apology. As he went round to pay these

calls Nikolay was very grave and even gloomy. Every one appeared to

receive him sympathetically, but everybody seemed embarrassed and glad

that he was going to Italy. Ivan Ossipovitch was positively tearful, but

was, for some reason, unable to bring himself to embrace him, even

at the final leave-taking. It is true that some of us retained the

conviction that the scamp had simply been making fun of us, and that the

illness was neither here nor there. He went to see Liputin too.

"Tell me," he said, "how could you guess beforehand what I should say

about your sense and prime Agafya with an answer to it?"

"Why," laughed Liputin, "it was because I recognised that you were a

clever man, and so I foresaw what your answer would be."

"Anyway, it was a remarkable coincidence. But, excuse me, did you

consider me a sensible man and not insane when you sent Agafya?"

"For the cleverest and most rational, and I only pretended to believe

that you were insane.... And you guessed at once what was in my mind,

and sent a testimonial to my wit through Agafya."

"Well, there you're a little mistaken. I really was... unwell..."

muttered Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, frowning. "Bah!" he cried, "do you

suppose I'm capable of attacking people when I'm in my senses? What

object would there be in it?"

Liputin shrank together and didn't know what to answer. Nikolay turned

pale or, at least, so it seemed to Liputin.

"You have a very peculiar way of looking at things, anyhow," Nikolay

went on, "but as for Agafya, I understand, of course, that you simply

sent her to be rude to me."

"I couldn't challenge you to a duel, could I?"

"Oh, no, of course! I seem to have heard that you're not fond of

duels...."

"Why borrow from the French?" said Liputin, doubling up again.

"You're for nationalism, then?"

Liputin shrank into himself more than ever.

"Bah, bah! What do I see?" cried Nicolas, noticing a volume of Considérant

in the most conspicuous place on the table. "You don't mean to say

you're a Fourierist! I'm afraid you must be! And isn't this too

borrowing from the French?" he laughed, tapping the book with his

finger.

"No, that's not taken from the French," Liputin cried with positive

fury, jumping up from his chair. "That is taken from the universal

language of humanity, not simply from the French. From the language of

the universal social republic and harmony of mankind, let me tell you!

Not simply from the French!"

"Foo! hang it all! There's no such language!" laughed Nikolay.

Sometimes a trifle will catch the attention and exclusively absorb it

for a time. Most of what I have to tell of young Stavrogin will come

later. But I will note now as a curious fact that of all the impressions

made on him by his stay in our town, the one most sharply imprinted

on his memory was the unsightly and almost abject figure of the little

provincial official, the coarse and jealous family despot, the miserly

money-lender who picked up the candle-ends and scraps left from dinner,

and was at the same time a passionate believer in some visionary future

"social harmony," who at night gloated in ecstasies over fantastic

pictures of a future phalanstery, in the approaching realisation of

which, in Russia, and in our province, he believed as firmly as in his

own existence. And that in the very place where he had saved up to

buy himself a "little home," where he had married for the second time,

getting a dowry with his bride, where perhaps, for a hundred miles round

there was not one man, himself included, who was the very least like a

future member "of the universal human republic and social harmony."

"God knows how these people come to exist!" Nikolay wondered, recalling

sometimes the unlooked-for Fourierist.

IV

Our prince travelled for over three years, so that he was almost

forgotten in the town. We learned from Stepan Trofimovitch that he

had travelled all over Europe, that he had even been in Egypt and had

visited Jerusalem, and then had joined some scientific expedition to

Iceland, and he actually did go to Iceland. It was reported too that he

had spent one winter attending lectures in a German university. He did

not write often to his mother, twice a year, or even less, but Varvara

Petrovna was not angry or offended at this. She accepted submissively

and without repining the relations that had been established once for

all between her son and herself. She fretted for her "Nicolas" and

dreamed of him continually. She kept her dreams and lamentations to

herself. She seemed to have become less intimate even with Stepan

Trofimovitch. She was forming secret projects, and seemed to have become

more careful about money than ever. She was more than ever given to

saving money and being angry at Stepan Trofimovitch's losses at cards.

At last, in the April of this year, she received a letter from Paris

from Praskovya Ivanovna Drozdov, the widow of the general and the

friend of Varvara Petrovna's childhood. Praskovya Ivanovna, whom Varvara

Petrovna had not seen or corresponded with for eight years, wrote,

informing her that Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch had become very intimate

with them and a great friend of her only daughter, Liza, and that he was

intending to accompany them to Switzerland, to Verney-Montreux,

though in the household of Count K. (a very influential personage in

Petersburg), who was now staying in Paris. He was received like a son

of the family, so that he almost lived at the count's. The letter was

brief, and the object of it was perfectly clear, though it contained

only a plain statement of the above-mentioned facts without drawing any

inferences from them. Varvara Petrovna did not pause long to consider;

she made up her mind instantly, made her preparations, and taking with

her her protégée, Dasha (Shatov's sister), she set off in the middle of

April for Paris, and from there went on to Switzerland. She returned in

July, alone, leaving Dasha with the Drozdovs. She brought us the news

that the Drozdovs themselves had promised to arrive among us by the end

of August.

The Drozdovs, too, were landowners of our province, but the official

duties of General Ivan Ivanovitch Drozdov (who had been a friend

of Varvara Petrovna's and a colleague of her husband's) had always

prevented them from visiting their magnificent estate. On the death of

the general, which had taken place the year before, the inconsolable

widow had gone abroad with her daughter, partly in order to try the

grape-cure which she proposed to carry out at Verney-Montreux during the

latter half of the summer. On their return to Russia they intended to

settle in our province for good. She had a large house in the town which

had stood empty for many years with the windows nailed up. They were

wealthy people. Praskovya Ivanovna had been, in her first marriage, a

Madame Tushin, and like her school-friend, Varvara Petrovna, was the

daughter of a government contractor of the old school, and she too had

been an heiress at her marriage. Tushin, a retired cavalry captain, was

also a man of means, and of some ability. At his death he left a snug

fortune to his only daughter Liza, a child of seven. Now that Lizaveta

Nikolaevna was twenty-two her private fortune might confidently be

reckoned at 200,000 roubles, to say nothing of the property--which was

bound to come to her at the death of her mother, who had no children by

her second marriage. Varvara Petrovna seemed to be very well satisfied

with her expedition. In her own opinion she had succeeded in coming to

a satisfactory understanding with Praskovya Ivanovna, and immediately

on her arrival she confided everything to Stepan Trofimovitch. She was

positively effusive with him as she had not been for a very long time.

"Hurrah!" cried Stepan Trofimovitch, and snapped his fingers.

He was in a perfect rapture, especially as he had spent the whole time

of his friend's absence in extreme dejection. On setting off she had not

even taken leave of him properly, and had said nothing of her plan to

"that old woman," dreading, perhaps, that he might chatter about it.

She was cross with him at the time on account of a considerable gambling

debt which she had suddenly discovered. But before she left Switzerland

she had felt that on her return she must make up for it to her forsaken

friend, especially as she had treated him very curtly for a long time

past. Her abrupt and mysterious departure had made a profound and

poignant impression on the timid heart of Stepan Trofimovitch, and to

make matters worse he was beset with other difficulties at the same

time. He was worried by a very considerable money obligation, which had

weighed upon him for a long time and which he could never hope to meet

without Varvara Petrovna's assistance. Moreover, in the May of this

year, the term of office of our mild and gentle Ivan Ossipovitch came to

an end. He was superseded under rather unpleasant circumstances. Then,

while Varvara Petrovna was still away, there followed the arrival of

our new governor, Andrey Antonovitch von Lembke, and with that a change

began at once to be perceptible in the attitude of almost the whole

of our provincial society towards Varvara Petrovna, and consequently

towards Stepan Trofimovitch. He had already had time anyway to make some

disagreeable though valuable observations, and seemed very apprehensive

alone without Varvara Petrovna. He had an agitating suspicion that he

had already been mentioned to the governor as a dangerous man. He knew

for a fact that some of our ladies meant to give up calling on Varvara

Petrovna. Of our governor's wife (who was only expected to arrive in the

autumn) it was reported that though she was, so it was heard, proud,

she was a real aristocrat, and "not like that poor Varvara Petrovna."

Everybody seemed to know for a fact, and in the greatest detail, that

our governor's wife and Varvara Petrovna had met already in society and

had parted enemies, so that the mere mention of Madame von Lembke's name

would, it was said, make a painful impression on Varvara Petrovna.

The confident and triumphant air of Varvara Petrovna, the contemptuous

indifference with which she heard of the opinions of our provincial

ladies and the agitation in local society, revived the flagging spirits

of Stepan Trofimovitch and cheered him up at once. With peculiar,

gleefully-obsequious humour, he was beginning to describe the new

governor's arrival.

"You are no doubt aware, _excellente amie_," he said, jauntily

and coquettishly drawling his words, "what is meant by a Russian

administrator, speaking generally, and what is meant by a new Russian

administrator, that is the newly-baked, newly-established... _ces

interminables mots Russes!_ But I don't think you can know in practice

what is meant by administrative ardour, and what sort of thing that is."

"Administrative ardour? I don't know what that is."

"Well... _Vous savez chez nous... En un mot,_ set the most insignificant

nonentity to sell miserable tickets at a railway station, and the

nonentity will at once feel privileged to look down on you like a

Jupiter, _pour montrer son pouvoir_ when you go to take a ticket. 'Now

then,' he says, 'I shall show you my power'... and in them it comes to a

genuine, administrative ardour. _En un mot,_ I've read that some verger

in one of our Russian churches abroad--_mais c'est très curieux_--drove,

literally drove a distinguished English family, _les dames charmantes_,

out of the church before the beginning of the Lenten service... _vous

savez ces chants et le livre de Job_... on the simple pretext that

'foreigners are not allowed to loaf about a Russian church, and that

they must come at the time fixed....' And he sent them into fainting

fits.... That verger was suffering from an attack of administrative

ardour, _et il a montré son pouvoir_."

"Cut it short if you can, Stepan Trofimovitch."

"Mr. von Lembke is making a tour of the province now. _En un mot,_ this

Andrey Antonovitch, though he is a russified German and of the Orthodox

persuasion, and even--I will say that for him--a remarkably handsome man

of about forty..."

"What makes you think he's a handsome man? He has eyes like a sheep's."

"Precisely so. But in this I yield, of course, to the opinion of our

ladies."

"Let's get on, Stepan Trofimovitch, I beg you! By the way, you're

wearing a red neck-tie. Is it long since you've taken to it?"

"I've... I've only put it on to-day."

"And do you take your constitutional? Do you go for a four-mile walk

every day as the doctor told you to?"

"N-not... always."

"I knew you didn't! I felt sure of that when I was in Switzerland!" she

cried irritably. "Now you must go not four but six miles a day! You've

grown terribly slack, terribly, terribly! You're not simply getting old,

you're getting decrepit.... You shocked me when I first saw you just

now, in spite of your red tie, _quelle idee rouge_! Go on about Von

Lembke if you've really something to tell me, and do finish some time, I

entreat you, I'm tired."

"_En un mot,_ I only wanted to say that he is one of those administrators

who begin to have power at forty, who, till they're forty, have been

stagnating in insignificance and then suddenly come to the front through

suddenly acquiring a wife, or some other equally desperate means....

That is, he has gone away now... that is, I mean to say, it was at once

whispered in both his ears that I am a corrupter of youth, and a hot-bed

of provincial atheism.... He began making inquiries at once."

"Is that true?"

"I took steps about it, in fact. When he was 'informed' that you 'ruled

the province,' _vous savez,_ he allowed himself to use the expression that

'there shall be nothing of that sort in the future.'"

"Did he say that?"

"That 'there shall be nothing of the sort in future,' and, _avec cette

morgue_.... His wife, Yulia Mihailovna, we shall behold at the end of

August, she's coming straight from Petersburg."

"From abroad. We met there."

_"Vraiment?"_

"In Paris and in Switzerland. She's related to the Drozdovs."

"Related! What an extraordinary coincidence! They say she is ambitious

and... supposed to have great connections."

"Nonsense! Connections indeed! She was an old maid without a farthing

till she was five-and-forty. But now she's hooked her Von Lembke,

and, of course, her whole object is to push him forward. They're both

intriguers."

"And they say she's two years older than he is?"

"Five. Her mother used to wear out her skirts on my doorsteps in Moscow;

she used to beg for an invitation to our balls as a favour when my

husband was living. And this creature used to sit all night alone in a

corner without dancing, with her turquoise fly on her forehead, so that

simply from pity I used to have to send her her first partner at two

o'clock in the morning. She was five-and-twenty then, and they used to

rig her out in short skirts like a little girl. It was improper to have

them about at last."

"I seem to see that fly."

"I tell you, as soon as I arrived I was in the thick of an intrigue. You

read Madame Drozdov's letter, of course. What could be clearer? What did

I find? That fool Praskovya herself--she always was a fool--looked at

me as much as to ask why I'd come. You can fancy how surprised I was.

I looked round, and there was that Lembke woman at her tricks, and that

cousin of hers--old Drozdov's nephew--it was all clear. You may be sure

I changed all that in a twinkling, and Praskovya is on my side again,

but what an intrigue!"

"In which you came off victor, however. Bismarck!"

"Without being a Bismarck I'm equal to falseness and stupidity wherever

I meet it, falseness, and Praskovya's folly. I don't know when I've met

such a flabby woman, and what's more her legs are swollen, and she's

a good-natured simpleton, too. What can be more foolish than a

good-natured simpleton?"

"A spiteful fool, _ma bonne amie,_ a spiteful fool is still more foolish,"

Stepan Trofimovitch protested magnanimously.

"You're right, perhaps. Do you remember Liza?"

_"Charmante enfant!"_

"But she's not an _enfant_ now, but a woman, and a woman of character.

She's a generous, passionate creature, and what I like about her, she

stands up to that confiding fool, her mother. There was almost a row

over that cousin."

"Bah, and of course he's no relation of Lizaveta Nikolaevna's at

all.... Has he designs on her?"

"You see, he's a young officer, not by any means talkative, modest in

fact. I always want to be just. I fancy he is opposed to the intrigue

himself, and isn't aiming at anything, and it was only the Von Lembke's

tricks. He had a great respect for Nicolas. You understand, it all

depends on Liza. But I left her on the best of terms with Nicolas,

and he promised he would come to us in November. So it's only the Von

Lembke who is intriguing, and Praskovya is a blind woman. She suddenly

tells me that all my suspicions are fancy. I told her to her face she

was a fool. I am ready to repeat it at the day of judgment. And if it

hadn't been for Nicolas begging me to leave it for a time, I wouldn't

have come away without unmasking that false woman. She's been trying

to ingratiate herself with Count K. through Nicolas. She wants to

come between mother and son. But Liza's on our side, and I came to an

understanding with Praskovya. Do you know that Karmazinov is a relation

of hers?"

"What? A relation of Madame von Lembke?"

"Yes, of hers. Distant."

"Karmazinov, the novelist?"

"Yes, the writer. Why does it surprise you? Of course he considers

himself a great man. Stuck-up creature! She's coming here with him. Now

she's making a fuss of him out there. She's got a notion of setting up a

sort of literary society here. He's coming for a month, he wants to sell

his last piece of property here. I very nearly met him in Switzerland,

and was very anxious not to. Though I hope he will deign to recognise

me. He wrote letters to me in the old days, he has been in my house.

I should like you to dress better, Stepan Trofimovitch; you're growing

more slovenly every day.... Oh, how you torment me! What are you reading

now?"

"I... I..."

"I understand. The same as ever, friends and drinking, the club and

cards, and the reputation of an atheist. I don't like that reputation,

Stepan Trofimovitch; I don't care for you to be called an atheist,

particularly now. I didn't care for it in old days, for it's all nothing

but empty chatter. It must be said at last."

_"Mais, ma chère..."_

"Listen, Stepan Trofimovitch, of course I'm ignorant compared with you

on all learned subjects, but as I was travelling here I thought a great

deal about you. I've come to one conclusion."

"What conclusion?"

"That you and I are not the wisest people in the world, but that there

are people wiser than we are."

"Witty and apt. If there are people wiser than we are, then there are

people more right than we are, and we may be mistaken, you mean? _Mais,

ma bonne amie,_ granted that I may make a mistake, yet have I not the

common, human, eternal, supreme right of freedom of conscience? I have

the right not to be bigoted or superstitious if I don't wish to, and for

that I shall naturally be hated by certain persons to the end of time.

_Et puis, comme on trouve toujours plus de moines que de raison,_ and as I

thoroughly agree with that..."

"What, what did you say?"

"I said, _on trouve toujours plus de moines que de raison,_ and as I

thoroughly..."

"I'm sure that's not your saying. You must have taken it from

somewhere."

"It was Pascal said that."

"Just as I thought...it's not your own. Why don't you ever say anything

like that yourself, so shortly and to the point, instead of dragging

things out to such a length? That's much better than what you said just

now about administrative ardour..."

_"Ma foi, chère..." _why? In the first place probably because I'm not

a Pascal after all, _et puis_... secondly, we Russians never can say

anything in our own language.... We never have said anything hitherto,

at any rate...."

"H'm! That's not true, perhaps. Anyway, you'd better make a note of such

phrases, and remember them, you know, in case you have to talk....

Ach, Stephan Trofimovitch. I have come to talk to you seriously, quite

seriously."

_"Chère, chère amie!"_

"Now that all these Von Lembkes and Karmazinovs.... Oh, my goodness, how

you have deteriorated!... Oh, my goodness, how you do torment me!...

I should have liked these people to feel a respect for you, for they're

not worth your little finger--but the way you behave!... What will they

see? What shall I have to show them? Instead of nobly standing as an

example, keeping up the tradition of the past, you surround yourself

with a wretched rabble, you have picked up impossible habits, you've

grown feeble, you can't do without wine and cards, you read nothing

but Paul de Kock, and write nothing, while all of them write; all your

time's wasted in gossip. How can you bring yourself to be friends with a

wretched creature like your inseparable Liputin?"

"Why is he _mine_ and _inseparable_?" Stepan Trofimovitch protested

timidly.

"Where is he now?" Varvara Petrovna went on, sharply and sternly.

"He... he has an infinite respect for you, and he's gone to S----k, to

receive an inheritance left him by his mother."

"He seems to do nothing but get money. And how's Shatov? Is he just the

same?"

_"Irascible, mais bon."_

"I can't endure your Shatov. He's spiteful and he thinks too much of

himself."

"How is Darya Pavlovna?"

"You mean Dasha? What made you think of her?" Varvara Petrovna looked

at him inquisitively. "She's quite well. I left her with the Drozdovs. I

heard something about your son in Switzerland. Nothing good."

_"Oh, c'est un histoire bien bête! Je vous attendais, ma bonne amie, pour

vous raconter..."_

"Enough, Stepan Trofimovitch. Leave me in peace. I'm worn out. We

shall have time to talk to our heart's content, especially of what's

unpleasant. You've begun to splutter when you laugh, it's a sign of

senility! And what a strange way of laughing you've taken to!... Good

Heavens, what a lot of bad habits you've fallen into! Karmazinov won't

come and see you! And people are only too glad to make the most of

anything as it is.... You've betrayed yourself completely now. Well,

come, that's enough, that's enough, I'm tired. You really might have

mercy upon one!"

Stepan Trofimovitch "had mercy," but he withdrew in great perturbation.

V

Our friend certainly had fallen into not a few bad habits, especially of

late. He had obviously and rapidly deteriorated; and it was true that

he had become slovenly. He drank more and had become more tearful and

nervous; and had grown too impressionable on the artistic side. His

face had acquired a strange facility for changing with extraordinary

quickness, from the most solemn expression, for instance, to the most

absurd, and even foolish. He could not endure solitude, and was always

craving for amusement. One had always to repeat to him some gossip, some

local anecdote, and every day a new one. If no one came to see him for

a long time he wandered disconsolately about the rooms, walked to the

window, puckering up his lips, heaved deep sighs, and almost fell to

whimpering at last. He was always full of forebodings, was afraid of

something unexpected and inevitable; he had become timorous; he began to

pay great attention to his dreams.

He spent all that day and evening in great depression, he sent for me,

was very much agitated, talked a long while, gave me a long account of

things, but all rather disconnected. Varvara Petrovna had known for a

long time that he concealed nothing from me. It seemed to me at last

that he was worried about something particular, and was perhaps unable

to form a definite idea of it himself. As a rule when we met _tête-à-tête_

and he began making long complaints to me, a bottle was almost always

brought in after a little time, and things became much more comfortable.

This time there was no wine, and he was evidently struggling all the

while against the desire to send for it.

"And why is she always so cross?" he complained every minute, like a

child. _"Tous les hommes de génie et de progrès en Russie étaient,

sont, et seront toujours des_ gamblers _et des_ drunkards _qui boivent_ in

outbreaks... and I'm not such a gambler after all, and I'm not such a

drunkard. She reproaches me for not writing anything. Strange

idea!... She asks why I lie down? She says I ought to stand, 'an example

and reproach.' _Mais, entre nous soit dit,_ what is a man to do who is

destined to stand as a 'reproach,' if not to lie down? Does she

understand that?"

And at last it became clear to me what was the chief particular trouble

which was worrying him so persistently at this time. Many times that

evening he went to the looking-glass, and stood a long while before

it. At last he turned from the looking-glass to me, and with a sort

of strange despair, said: "_Mon cher, je suis un_ broken-down man." Yes,

certainly, up to that time, up to that very day there was one thing only

of which he had always felt confident in spite of the "new views," and

of the "change in Varvara Petrovna's ideas," that was, the conviction

that still he had a fascination for her feminine heart, not simply as an

exile or a celebrated man of learning, but as a handsome man. For twenty

years this soothing and flattering opinion had been rooted in his mind,

and perhaps of all his convictions this was the hardest to part with.

Had he any presentiment that evening of the colossal ordeal which was

preparing for him in the immediate future?

VI

I will now enter upon the description of that almost forgotten incident

with which my story properly speaking begins.

At last at the very end of August the Drozdovs returned. Their arrival

made a considerable sensation in local society, and took place shortly

before their relation, our new governor's wife, made her long-expected

appearance. But of all these interesting events I will speak later.

For the present I will confine myself to saying that Praskovya Ivanovna

brought Varvara Petrovna, who was expecting her so impatiently, a most

perplexing problem: Nikolay had parted from them in July, and,

meeting Count K. on the Rhine, had set off with him and his family for

Petersburg. (N.B.--The Count's three daughters were all of marriageable

age.)

"Lizaveta is so proud and obstinate that I could get nothing out of

her," Praskovya Ivanovna said in conclusion. "But I saw for myself that

something had happened between her and Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch. I don't

know the reasons, but I fancy, my dear Varvara Petrovna, that you

will have to ask your Darya Pavlovna for them. To my thinking Liza

was offended. I'm glad. I can tell you that I've brought you back your

favourite at last and handed her over to you; it's a weight off my

mind."

These venomous words were uttered with remarkable irritability. It was

evident that the "flabby" woman had prepared them and gloated beforehand

over the effect they would produce. But Varvara Petrovna was not the

woman to be disconcerted by sentimental effects and enigmas. She sternly

demanded the most precise and satisfactory explanations. Praskovya

Ivanovna immediately lowered her tone and even ended by dissolving into

tears and expressions of the warmest friendship. This irritable but

sentimental lady, like Stepan Trofimovitch, was forever yearning for

true friendship, and her chief complaint against her daughter Lizaveta

Nikolaevna was just that "her daughter was not a friend to her."

But from all her explanations and outpourings nothing certain could be

gathered but that there actually had been some sort of quarrel between

Liza and Nikolay, but of the nature of the quarrel Praskovya Ivanovna

was obviously unable to form a definite idea. As for her imputations

against Darya Pavlovna, she not only withdrew them completely in the

end, but even particularly begged Varvara Petrovna to pay no attention

to her words, because "they had been said in irritation." In fact, it

had all been left very far from clear--suspicious, indeed. According to

her account the quarrel had arisen from Liza's "obstinate and ironical

character." "Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch is proud, too, and though he

was very much in love, yet he could not endure sarcasm, and began to be

sarcastic himself. Soon afterwards we made the acquaintance of a

young man, the nephew, I believe, of your 'Professor' and, indeed, the

surname's the same."

"The son, not the nephew," Varvara Petrovna corrected her.

Even in old days Praskovya Ivanovna had been always unable to recall

Stepan Trofimovitch's name, and had always called him the "Professor."

"Well, his son, then; so much the better. Of course, it's all the same

to me. An ordinary young man, very lively and free in his manners, but

nothing special in him. Well, then, Liza herself did wrong, she

made friends with the young man with the idea of making Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch jealous. I don't see much harm in that; it's the way of

girls, quite usual, even charming in them. Only instead of being jealous

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch made friends with the young man himself, just as

though he saw nothing and didn't care. This made Liza furious. The young

man soon went away (he was in a great hurry to get somewhere) and

Liza took to picking quarrels with Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch at every

opportunity. She noticed that he used sometimes to talk to Dasha; and,

well, she got in such a frantic state that even my life wasn't worth

living, my dear. The doctors have forbidden my being irritated, and I

was so sick of their lake they make such a fuss about, it simply gave me

toothache, I had such rheumatism. It's stated in print that the Lake of

Geneva does give people the toothache. It's a feature of the place. Then

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch suddenly got a letter from the countess and he

left us at once. He packed up in one day. They parted in a friendly way,

and Liza became very cheerful and frivolous, and laughed a great deal

seeing him off; only that was all put on. When he had gone she became

very thoughtful, and she gave up speaking of him altogether and wouldn't

let me mention his name. And I should advise you, dear Varvara Petrovna,

not to approach the subject with Liza, you'll only do harm. But if you

hold your tongue she'll begin to talk of it herself, and then you'll

learn more. I believe they'll come together again, if only Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch doesn't put off coming, as he promised."

"I'll write to him at once. If that's how it was, there was nothing in

the quarrel; all nonsense! And I know Darya too well. It's nonsense!"

"I'm sorry for what I said about Dashenka, I did wrong. Their

conversations were quite ordinary and they talked out loud, too. But it

all upset me so much at the time, my dear. And Liza, I saw, got on with

her again as affectionately as before...."

That very day Varvara Petrovna wrote to Nikolay, and begged him to come,

if only one month, earlier than the date he had fixed. But yet she still

felt that there was something unexplained and obscure in the matter.

She pondered over it all the evening and all night. Praskovya's opinion

seemed to her too innocent and sentimental. "Praskovya has always

been too sentimental from the old schooldays upwards," she reflected.

"Nicolas is not the man to run away from a girl's taunts. There's some

other reason for it, if there really has been a breach between them.

That officer's here though, they've brought him with them. As a relation

he lives in their house. And, as for Darya, Praskovya was in too much

haste to apologise. She must have kept something to herself, which she

wouldn't tell me."

By the morning Varvara Petrovna had matured a project for putting a stop

once for all to one misunderstanding at least; a project amazing in its

unexpectedness. What was in her heart when she conceived it? It would

be hard to decide and I will not undertake to explain beforehand all

the incongruities of which it was made up. I simply confine myself as

chronicler to recording events precisely as they happened, and it is not

my fault if they seem incredible. Yet I must once more testify that by

the morning there was not the least suspicion of Dasha left in Varvara

Petrovna's mind, though in reality there never had been any--she had

too much confidence in her. Besides, she could not admit the idea that

"Nicolas" could be attracted by her Darya. Next morning when Darya

Pavlovna was pouring out tea at the table Varvara Petrovna looked for a

long while intently at her and, perhaps for the twentieth time since the

previous day, repeated to herself: "It's all nonsense!"

All she noticed was that Dasha looked rather tired, and that she was

even quieter and more apathetic than she used to be. After their morning

tea, according to their invariable custom, they sat down to needlework.

Varvara Petrovna demanded from her a full account of her impressions

abroad, especially of nature, of the inhabitants, of the towns, the

customs, their arts and commerce--of everything she had time to observe.

She asked no questions about the Drozdovs or how she had got on with

them. Dasha, sitting beside her at the work-table helping her with the

embroidery, talked for half an hour in her even, monotonous, but rather

weak voice.

"Darya!" Varvara Petrovna interrupted suddenly, "is there nothing

special you want to tell me?"

"No, nothing," said Dasha, after a moment's thought, and she glanced at

Varvara Petrovna with her light-coloured eyes.

"Nothing on your soul, on your heart, or your conscience?"

"Nothing," Dasha repeated, quietly, but with a sort of sullen firmness.

"I knew there wasn't! Believe me, Darya, I shall never doubt you. Now

sit still and listen. In front of me, on that chair. I want to see the

whole of you. That's right. Listen, do you want to be married?"

Dasha responded with a long, inquiring, but not greatly astonished look.

"Stay, hold your tongue. In the first place there is a very great

difference in age, but of course you know better than anyone what

nonsense that is. You're a sensible girl, and there must be no mistakes

in your life. Besides, he's still a handsome man... In short, Stepan

Trofimovitch, for whom you have always had such a respect. Well?"

Dasha looked at her still more inquiringly, and this time not simply

with surprise; she blushed perceptibly.

"Stay, hold your tongue, don't be in a hurry! Though you will have money

under my will, yet when I die, what will become of you, even if you have

money? You'll be deceived and robbed of your money, you'll be lost in

fact. But married to him you're the wife of a distinguished man. Look at

him on the other hand. Though I've provided for him, if I die what will

become of him? But I could trust him to you. Stay, I've not finished.

He's frivolous, shilly-shally, cruel, egoistic, he has low habits. But

mind you think highly of him, in the first place because there are many

worse. I don't want to get you off my hands by marrying you to a rascal,

you don't imagine anything of that sort, do you? And, above all, because

I ask you, you'll think highly of him,"--

She broke off suddenly and irritably. "Do you hear? Why won't you say

something?"

Dasha still listened and did not speak.

"Stay, wait a little. He's an old woman, but you know, that's all the

better for you. Besides, he's a pathetic old woman. He doesn't deserve

to be loved by a woman at all, but he deserves to be loved for his

helplessness, and you must love him for his helplessness. You understand

me, don't you? Do you understand me?"

Dasha nodded her head affirmatively.

"I knew you would. I expected as much of you. He will love you because

he ought, he ought; he ought to adore you." Varvara Petrovna almost

shrieked with peculiar exasperation. "Besides, he will be in love with

you without any ought about it. I know him. And another thing, I shall

always be here. You may be sure I shall always be here. He will complain

of you, he'll begin to say things against you behind your back, he'll

whisper things against you to any stray person he meets, he'll be for

ever whining and whining; he'll write you letters from one room to

another, two a day, but he won't be able to get on without you all the

same, and that's the chief thing. Make him obey you. If you can't make

him you'll be a fool. He'll want to hang himself and threaten, to--don't

you believe it. It's nothing but nonsense. Don't believe it; but still

keep a sharp look-out, you never can tell, and one day he may hang

himself. It does happen with people like that. It's not through strength

of will but through weakness that people hang themselves, and so

never drive him to an extreme, that's the first rule in married life.

Remember, too, that he's a poet. Listen, Dasha, there's no greater

happiness than self-sacrifice. And besides, you'll be giving me great

satisfaction and that's the chief thing. Don't think I've been talking

nonsense. I understand what I'm saying. I'm an egoist, you be an egoist,

too. Of course I'm not forcing you. It's entirely for you to decide.

As you say, so it shall be. Well, what's the good of sitting like this.

Speak!"

"I don't mind, Varvara Petrovna, if I really must be married," said

Dasha firmly.

"Must? What are you hinting at?" Varvara Petrovna looked sternly and

intently at her.

Dasha was silent, picking at her embroidery canvas with her needle.

"Though you're a clever girl, you're talking nonsense; though it is true

that I have certainly set my heart on marrying you, yet it's not because

it's necessary, but simply because the idea has occurred to me, and only

to Stepan Trofimovitch. If it had not been for Stepan Trofimovitch, I

should not have thought of marrying you yet, though you are twenty....

Well?"

"I'll do as you wish, Varvara Petrovna."

"Then you consent! Stay, be quiet. Why are you in such a hurry? I

haven't finished. In my will I've left you fifteen thousand roubles.

I'll give you that at once, on your wedding-day. You will give eight

thousand of it to him; that is, not to him but to me. He has a debt of

eight thousand. I'll pay it, but he must know that it is done with your

money. You'll have seven thousand left in your hands. Never let him

touch a farthing of it. Don't pay his debts ever. If once you pay them,

you'll never be free of them. Besides, I shall always be here. You

shall have twelve hundred roubles a year from me, with extras, fifteen

hundred, besides board and lodging, which shall be at my expense, just

as he has it now. Only you must set up your own servants. Your yearly

allowance shall be paid to you all at once straight into your hands. But

be kind, and sometimes give him something, and let his friends come to

see him once a week, but if they come more often, turn them out. But

I shall be here, too. And if I die, your pension will go on till his

death, do you hear, till his death, for it's his pension, not yours.

And besides the seven thousand you'll have now, which you ought to keep

untouched if you're not foolish, I'll leave you another eight thousand

in my will. And you'll get nothing more than that from me, it's right

that you should know it. Come, you consent, eh? Will you say something

at last?"

"I have told you already, Varvara Petrovna."

"Remember that you're free to decide. As you like, so it shall be."

"Then, may I ask, Varvara Petrovna, has Stepan Trofimovitch said

anything yet?"

"No, he hasn't said anything, he doesn't know... but he will speak

directly."

She jumped up at once and threw on a black shawl. Dasha flushed a little

again, and watched her with questioning eyes. Varvara Petrovna turned

suddenly to her with a face flaming with anger.

"You're a fool!" She swooped down on her like a hawk. "An ungrateful

fool! What's in your mind? Can you imagine that I'd compromise you, in

any way, in the smallest degree. Why, he shall crawl on his knees to

ask you, he must be dying of happiness, that's how it shall be arranged.

Why, you know that I'd never let you suffer. Or do you suppose he'll

take you for the sake of that eight thousand, and that I'm hurrying off

to sell you? You're a fool, a fool! You're all ungrateful fools. Give me

my umbrella!"

And she flew off to walk by the wet brick pavements and the wooden

planks to Stepan Trofimovitch's.

VII

It was true that she would never have let Dasha suffer; on the contrary,

she considered now that she was acting as her benefactress. The most

generous and legitimate indignation was glowing in her soul, when, as

she put on her shawl, she caught fixed upon her the embarrassed and

mistrustful eyes of her protégée. She had genuinely loved the girl from

her childhood upwards. Praskovya Ivanovna had with justice called Darya

Pavlovna her favourite. Long ago Varvara Petrovna had made up her mind

once for all that "Darya's disposition was not like her brother's" (not,

that is, like Ivan Shatov's), that she was quiet and gentle, and capable

of great self-sacrifice; that she was distinguished by a power of

devotion, unusual modesty, rare reasonableness, and, above all, by

gratitude. Till that time Dasha had, to all appearances, completely

justified her expectations.

"In that life there will be no mistakes," said Varvara Petrovna when the

girl was only twelve years old, and as it was characteristic of her to

attach herself doggedly and passionately to any dream that fascinated

her, any new design, any idea that struck her as noble, she made up her

mind at once to educate Dasha as though she were her own daughter. She

at once set aside a sum of money for her, and sent for a governess, Miss

Criggs, who lived with them until the girl was sixteen, but she was

for some reason suddenly dismissed. Teachers came for her from the High

School, among them a real Frenchman, who taught Dasha French. He, too,

was suddenly dismissed, almost turned out of the house. A poor lady, a

widow of good family, taught her to play the piano. Yet her chief tutor

was Stepan Trofimovitch.

In reality he first discovered Dasha. He began teaching the quiet child

even before Varvara Petrovna had begun to think about her. I repeat

again, it was wonderful how children took to him. Lizaveta Nikolaevna

Tushin had been taught by him from the age of eight till eleven (Stepan

Trofimovitch took no fees, of course, for his lessons, and would not on

any account have taken payment from the Drozdovs). But he fell in love

with the charming child and used to tell her poems of a sort about the

creation of the world, about the earth, and the history of humanity.

His lectures about the primitive peoples and primitive man were more

interesting than the Arabian Nights. Liza, who was ecstatic over these

stories, used to mimic Stepan Trofimovitch very funnily at home. He

heard of this and once peeped in on her unawares. Liza, overcome

with confusion, flung herself into his arms and shed tears; Stepan

Trofimovitch wept too with delight. But Liza soon after went away, and

only Dasha was left. When Dasha began to have other teachers, Stepan

Trofimovitch gave up his lessons with her, and by degrees left off

noticing her. Things went on like this for a long time. Once when she

was seventeen he was struck by her prettiness. It happened at Varvara

Petrovna's table. He began to talk to the young girl, was much pleased

with her answers, and ended by offering to give her a serious and

comprehensive course of lessons on the history of Russian literature.

Varvara Petrovna approved, and thanked him for his excellent idea,

and Dasha was delighted. Stepan Trofimovitch proceeded to make special

preparations for the lectures, and at last they began. They began

with the most ancient period. The first lecture went off enchantingly.

Varvara Petrovna was present. When Stepan Trofimovitch had finished, and

as he was going informed his pupil that the next time he would deal with

"The Story of the Expedition of Igor," Varvara Petrovna suddenly got up

and announced that there would be no more lessons. Stepan Trofimovitch

winced, but said nothing, and Dasha flushed crimson. It put a stop to

the scheme, however. This had happened just three years before Varvara

Petrovna's unexpected fancy.

Poor Stepan Trofimovitch was sitting alone free from all misgivings.

Plunged in mournful reveries he had for some time been looking out of

the window to see whether any of his friends were coming. But nobody

would come. It was drizzling. It was turning cold, he would have to have

the stove heated. He sighed. Suddenly a terrible apparition flashed upon

his eyes:

Varvara Petrovna in such weather and at such an unexpected hour to see

him! And on foot! He was so astounded that he forgot to put on his

coat, and received her as he was, in his everlasting pink-wadded

dressing-jacket.

_"Ma bonne amie!"_ he cried faintly, to greet her. "You're alone; I'm

glad; I can't endure your friends. How you do smoke! Heavens, what an

atmosphere! You haven't finished your morning tea and it's nearly twelve

o'clock. It's your idea of bliss--disorder! You take pleasure in dirt.

What's that torn paper on the floor? Nastasya, Nastasya! What is

your Nastasya about? Open the window, the casement, the doors, fling

everything wide open. And we'll go into the drawing-room. I've come to

you on a matter of importance. And you sweep up, my good woman, for once

in your life."

"They make such a muck!" Nastasya whined in a voice of plaintive

exasperation.

"Well, you must sweep, sweep it up fifteen times a day! You've a

wretched drawing-room" (when they had gone into the drawing-room). "Shut

the door properly. She'll be listening. You must have it repapered.

Didn't I send a paperhanger to you with patterns? Why didn't you choose

one? Sit down, and listen. Do sit down, I beg you. Where are you off to?

Where are you off to? Where are you off to?"

"I'll be back directly," Stepan Trofimovitch cried from the next room.

"Here I am again."

"Ah,--you've changed your coat." She scanned him mockingly. (He had

flung his coat on over the dressing-jacket.) "Well, certainly that's

more suited to our subject. Do sit down, I entreat you."

She told him everything at once, abruptly and impressively. She hinted at

the eight thousand of which he stood in such terrible need. She told him

in detail of the dowry. Stepan Trofimovitch sat trembling, opening

his eyes wider and wider. He heard it all, but he could not realise it

clearly. He tried to speak, but his voice kept breaking. All he knew

was that everything would be as she said, that to protest and refuse to

agree would be useless, and that he was a married man irrevocably.

_"Mais, ma bonne amie!_...for the third time, and at my age...and to

such a child." He brought out at last, _"Mais, c'est une enfant!"_

"A child who is twenty years old, thank God. Please don't roll your

eyes, I entreat you, you're not on the stage. You're very clever and

learned, but you know nothing at all about life. You will always want a

nurse to look after you. I shall die, and what will become of you?

She will be a good nurse to you; she's a modest girl, strong-willed,

reasonable; besides, I shall be here too, I shan't die directly. She's

fond of home, she's an angel of gentleness. This happy thought came to

me in Switzerland. Do you understand if I tell you myself that she is

an angel of gentleness!" she screamed with sudden fury. "Your house is

dirty, she will bring in order, cleanliness. Everything will shine like

a mirror. Good gracious, do you expect me to go on my knees to you with

such a treasure, to enumerate all the advantages, to court you! Why, you

ought to be on your knees.... Oh, you shallow, shallow, faint-hearted

man!"

"But... I'm an old man!"

"What do your fifty-three years matter! Fifty is the middle of life,

not the end of it. You are a handsome man and you know it yourself. You

know, too, what a respect she has for you. If I die, what will become of

her? But married to you she'll be at peace, and I shall be at peace. You

have renown, a name, a loving heart. You receive a pension which I look

upon as an obligation. You will save her perhaps, you will save her! In

any case you will be doing her an honour. You will form her for life,

you will develop her heart, you will direct her ideas. How many people

come to grief nowadays because their ideas are wrongly directed. By that

time your book will be ready, and you will at once set people talking

about you again."

"I am, in fact," he muttered, at once flattered by Varvara Petrovna's

adroit insinuations. "I was just preparing to sit down to my 'Tales from

Spanish History.'"

"Well, there you are. It's just come right."

"But... she? Have you spoken to her?"

"Don't worry about her. And there's no need for you to be inquisitive.

Of course, you must ask her yourself, entreat her to do you the honour,

you understand? But don't be uneasy. I shall be here. Besides, you love

her."

Stepan Trofimovitch felt giddy. The walls were going round. There was

one terrible idea underlying this to which he could not reconcile

himself.

_"Excellente amie,"_ his voice quivered suddenly. "I could never have

conceived that you would make up your mind to give me in marriage to

another... woman."

"You're not a girl, Stepan Trofimovitch. Only girls are given in

marriage. You are taking a wife," Varvara Petrovna hissed malignantly.

_"Oui, j'ai pris un mot pour un autre. Mais c'est égal."_ He gazed at her

with a hopeless air.

"I see that _c'est égal_," she muttered contemptuously through her teeth.

"Good heavens! Why he's going to faint. Nastasya, Nastasya, water!"

But water was not needed. He came to himself. Varvara Petrovna took up

her umbrella.

"I see it's no use talking to you now...."

_"Oui, oui, je suis incapable."_

"But by to-morrow you'll have rested and thought it over. Stay at home.

If anything happens let me know, even if it's at night. Don't write

letters, I shan't read them. To-morrow I'll come again at this time

alone, for a final answer, and I trust it will be satisfactory. Try to

have nobody here and no untidiness, for the place isn't fit to be seen.

Nastasya, Nastasya!"

The next day, of course, he consented, and, indeed, he could do nothing

else. There was one circumstance...

VIII

Stepan Trofimovitch's estate, as we used to call it (which consisted

of fifty souls, reckoning in the old fashion, and bordered on

Skvoreshniki), was not really his at all, but his first wife's, and

so belonged now to his son Pyotr Stepanovitch Verhovensky. Stepan

Trofimovitch was simply his trustee, and so, when the nestling was

full-fledged, he had given his father a formal authorisation to manage

the estate. This transaction was a profitable one for the young man. He

received as much as a thousand roubles a year by way of revenue from the

estate, though under the new regime it could not have yielded more than

five hundred, and possibly not that. God knows how such an arrangement

had arisen. The whole sum, however, was sent the young man by Varvara

Petrovna, and Stepan Trofimovitch had nothing to do with a single rouble

of it. On the other hand, the whole revenue from the land remained in

his pocket, and he had, besides, completely ruined the estate, letting

it to a mercenary rogue, and without the knowledge of Varvara Petrovna

selling the timber which gave the estate its chief value. He had some

time before sold the woods bit by bit. It was worth at least

eight thousand, yet he had only received five thousand for it. But

he sometimes lost too much at the club, and was afraid to ask Varvara

Petrovna for the money. She clenched her teeth when she heard at last of

everything. And now, all at once, his son announced that he was

coming himself to sell his property for what he could get for it, and

commissioned his father to take steps promptly to arrange the sale. It

was clear that Stepan Trofimovitch, being a generous and disinterested

man, felt ashamed of his treatment of _ce cher enfant_ (whom he had seen

for the last time nine years before as a student in Petersburg). The

estate might originally have been worth thirteen or fourteen thousand.

Now it was doubtful whether anyone would give five for it. No doubt

Stepan Trofimovitch was fully entitled by the terms of the trust to sell

the wood, and taking into account the incredibly large yearly revenue of

a thousand roubles which had been sent punctually for so many years,

he could have put up a good defence of his management. But Stepan

Trofimovitch was a generous man of exalted impulses. A wonderfully fine

inspiration occurred to his mind: when Petrusha returned, to lay on the

table before him the maximum price of fifteen thousand roubles without

a hint at the sums that had been sent him hitherto, and warmly and with

tears to press _ce cher fils_ to his heart, and so to make an end of all

accounts between them. He began cautiously and indirectly unfolding

this picture before Varvara Petrovna. He hinted that this would add a

peculiarly noble note to their friendship... to their "idea." This

would set the parents of the last generation--and people of the last

generation generally--in such a disinterested and magnanimous light in

comparison with the new frivolous and socialistic younger generation. He

said a great deal more, but Varvara Petrovna was obstinately silent. At

last she informed him airily that she was prepared to buy their estate,

and to pay for it the maximum price, that is, six or seven thousand

(though four would have been a fair price for it). Of the remaining

eight thousand which had vanished with the woods she said not a word.

This conversation took place a month before the match was proposed to

him. Stepan Trofimovitch was overwhelmed, and began to ponder. There

might in the past have been a hope that his son would not come,

after all--an outsider, that is to say, might have hoped so. Stepan

Trofimovitch as a father would have indignantly rejected the

insinuation that he could entertain such a hope. Anyway queer rumours

had hitherto been reaching us about Petrusha. To begin with, on

completing his studies at the university six years before, he had hung

about in Petersburg without getting work. Suddenly we got the news that

he had taken part in issuing some anonymous manifesto and that he

was implicated in the affair. Then he suddenly turned up abroad in

Switzerland at Geneva--he had escaped, very likely.

"It's surprising to me," Stepan Trofimovitch commented, greatly

disconcerted. "Petrusha, _c'est une si pauvre tête!_ He's good,

noble-hearted, very sensitive, and I was so delighted with him in

Petersburg, comparing him with the young people of to-day. But _c'est un

pauvre sire, tout de même_.... And you know it all comes from that

same half-bakedness, that sentimentality. They are fascinated, not by

realism, but by the emotional ideal side of socialism, by the religious

note in it, so to say, by the poetry of it... second-hand, of course.

And for me, for me, think what it means! I have so many enemies here and

more still _there_, they'll put it down to the father's influence. Good

God! Petrusha a revolutionist! What times we live in!"

Very soon, however, Petrusha sent his exact address from Switzerland for

money to be sent him as usual; so he could not be exactly an exile.

And now, after four years abroad, he was suddenly making his appearance

again in his own country, and announced that he would arrive shortly,

so there could be no charge against him. What was more, someone seemed

to be interested in him and protecting him. He wrote now from the south

of Russia, where he was busily engaged in some private but important

business. All this was capital, but where was his father to get that

other seven or eight thousand, to make up a suitable price for the

estate? And what if there should be an outcry, and instead of that

imposing picture it should come to a lawsuit? Something told Stepan

Trofimovitch that the sensitive Petrusha would not relinquish anything

that was to his interest. "Why is it--as I've noticed," Stepan

Trofimovitch whispered to me once, "why is it that all these desperate

socialists and communists are at the same time such incredible

skinflints, so avaricious, so keen over property, and, in fact, the

more socialistic, the more extreme they are, the keener they are over

property... why is it? Can that, too, come from sentimentalism?" I

don't know whether there is any truth in this observation of Stepan

Trofimovitch's. I only know that Petrusha had somehow got wind of the

sale of the woods and the rest of it, and that Stepan Trofimovitch was

aware of the fact. I happened, too, to read some of Petrusha's letters

to his father. He wrote extremely rarely, once a year, or even less

often. Only recently, to inform him of his approaching visit, he had

sent two letters, one almost immediately after the other. All his

letters were short, dry, consisting only of instructions, and as the

father and son had, since their meeting in Petersburg, adopted the

fashionable "thou" and "thee," Petrusha's letters had a striking

resemblance to the missives that used to be sent by landowners of the

old school from the town to their serfs whom they had left in charge of

their estates. And now suddenly this eight thousand which would solve

the difficulty would be wafted to him by Varvara Petrovna's proposition.

And at the same time she made him distinctly feel that it never could

be wafted to him from anywhere else. Of course Stepan Trofimovitch

consented.

He sent for me directly she had gone and shut himself up for the whole

day, admitting no one else. He cried, of course, talked well and talked

a great deal, contradicted himself continually, made a casual pun, and

was much pleased with it. Then he had a slight attack of his "summer

cholera"--everything in fact followed the usual course. Then he brought

out the portrait of his German bride, now twenty years deceased, and

began plaintively appealing to her: "Will you forgive me?" In fact he

seemed somehow distracted. Our grief led us to get a little drunk. He

soon fell into a sweet sleep, however. Next morning he tied his cravat

in masterly fashion, dressed with care, and went frequently to look at

himself in the glass. He sprinkled his handkerchief with scent, only a

slight dash of it, however, and as soon as he saw Varvara Petrovna out

of the window he hurriedly took another handkerchief and hid the scented

one under the pillow.

"Excellent!" Varvara Petrovna approved, on receiving his consent. "In

the first place you show a fine decision, and secondly you've listened

to the voice of reason, to which you generally pay so little heed in

your private affairs. There's no need of haste, however," she added,

scanning the knot of his white tie, "for the present say nothing, and I

will say nothing. It will soon be your birthday; I will come to see you

with her. Give us tea in the evening, and please without wine or other

refreshments, but I'll arrange it all myself. Invite your friends, but

we'll make the list together. You can talk to her the day before, if

necessary. And at your party we won't exactly announce it, or make an

engagement of any sort, but only hint at it, and let people know without

any sort of ceremony. And then the wedding a fortnight later, as far

as possible without any fuss.... You two might even go away for a time

after the wedding, to Moscow, for instance. I'll go with you, too,

perhaps... The chief thing is, keep quiet till then."

Stepan Trofimovitch was surprised. He tried to falter that he could

not do like that, that he must talk it over with his bride. But Varvara

Petrovna flew at him in exasperation.

"What for? In the first place it may perhaps come to nothing."

"Come to nothing!" muttered the bridegroom, utterly dumbfoundered.

"Yes. I'll see.... But everything shall be as I've told you, and don't

be uneasy. I'll prepare her myself. There's really no need for you.

Everything necessary shall be said and done, and there's no need for you

to meddle. Why should you? In what character? Don't come and don't write

letters. And not a sight or sound of you, I beg. I will be silent too."

She absolutely refused to explain herself, and went away, obviously

upset. Stepan Trofimovitch's excessive readiness evidently impressed

her. Alas! he was utterly unable to grasp his position, and the question

had not yet presented itself to him from certain other points of view.

On the contrary a new note was apparent in him, a sort of conquering and

jaunty air. He swaggered.

"I do like that!" he exclaimed, standing before me, and flinging wide

his arms. "Did you hear? She wants to drive me to refusing at last. Why,

I may lose patience, too, and... refuse! 'Sit still, there's no need

for you to go to her.' But after all, why should I be married? Simply

because she's taken an absurd fancy into her heart. But I'm a serious

man, and I can refuse to submit to the idle whims of a giddy-woman! I

have duties to my son and...and to myself! I'm making a sacrifice. Does

she realise that? I have agreed, perhaps, because I am weary of life

and nothing matters to me. But she may exasperate me, and then it will

matter. I shall resent it and refuse. _Et enfin, le ridicule_...what will

they say at the club? What will... what will... Laputin say? 'Perhaps

nothing will come of it'--what a thing to say! That beats everything.

That's really... what is one to say to that?... _Je suis un forçat, un

Badinguet, un_ man pushed to the wall...."

And at the same time a sort of capricious complacency, something

frivolous and playful, could be seen in the midst of all these plaintive

exclamations. In the evening we drank too much again.

CHAPTER III. THE SINS OF OTHERS

I

ABOUT A WEEK had passed, and the position had begun to grow more

complicated.

I may mention in passing that I suffered a great deal during that

unhappy week, as I scarcely left the side of my affianced friend, in the

capacity of his most intimate confidant. What weighed upon him most

was the feeling of shame, though we saw no one all that week, and sat

indoors alone. But he was even ashamed before me, and so much so that

the more he confided to me the more vexed he was with me for it. He was

so morbidly apprehensive that he expected that every one knew about it

already, the whole town, and was afraid to show himself, not only at the

club, but even in his circle of friends. He positively would not go out

to take his constitutional till well after dusk, when it was quite dark.

A week passed and he still did not know whether he were betrothed or

not, and could not find out for a fact, however much he tried. He had

not yet seen his future bride, and did not know whether she was to be

his bride or not; did not, in fact, know whether there was anything

serious in it at all. Varvara Petrovna, for some reason, resolutely

refused to admit him to her presence. In answer to one of his first

letters to her (and he wrote a great number of them) she begged him

plainly to spare her all communications with him for a time, because

she was very busy, and having a great deal of the utmost importance to

communicate to him she was waiting for a more free moment to do so, and

that she would let him know _in time_ when he could come to see her. She

declared she would send back his letters unopened, as they were "simple

self-indulgence." I read that letter myself--he showed it me.

Yet all this harshness and indefiniteness were nothing compared with

his chief anxiety. That anxiety tormented him to the utmost and without

ceasing. He grew thin and dispirited through it. It was something of

which he was more ashamed than of anything else, and of which he would

not on any account speak, even to me; on the contrary, he lied on

occasion, and shuffled before me like a little boy; and at the same time

he sent for me himself every day, could not stay two hours without me,

needing me as much as air or water.

Such conduct rather wounded my vanity. I need hardly say that I had

long ago privately guessed this great secret of his, and saw through it

completely. It was my firmest conviction at the time that the revelation

of this secret, this chief anxiety of Stepan Trofimovitch's would not

have redounded to his credit, and, therefore, as I was still young, I

was rather indignant at the coarseness of his feelings and the ugliness

of some of his suspicions. In my warmth--and, I must confess, in my

weariness of being his confidant--I perhaps blamed him too much. I was

so cruel as to try and force him to confess it all to me himself, though

I did recognise that it might be difficult to confess some things. He,

too, saw through me; that is, he clearly perceived that I saw through

him, and that I was angry with him indeed, and he was angry with me

too for being angry with him and seeing through him. My irritation was

perhaps petty and stupid; but the unrelieved solitude of two friends

together is sometimes extremely prejudicial to true friendship. From a

certain point of view he had a very true understanding of some aspects

of his position, and defined it, indeed, very subtly on those points

about which he did not think it necessary to be secret.

"Oh, how different she was then!" he would sometimes say to me about

Varvara Petrovna. "How different she was in the old days when we used to

talk together.... Do you know that she could talk in those days! Can

you believe that she had ideas in those days, original ideas! Now,

everything has changed! She says all that's only old-fashioned twaddle.

She despises the past.... Now she's like some shopman or cashier, she

has grown hard-hearted, and she's always cross...."

"Why is she cross now if you are carrying out her orders?" I answered.

He looked at me subtly.

"_Cher ami_; if I had not agreed she would have been dreadfully angry,

dread-ful-ly! But yet less than now that I have consented."

He was pleased with this saying of his, and we emptied a bottle between

us that evening. But that was only for a moment, next day he was worse

and more ill-humoured than ever.

But what I was most vexed with him for was that he could not bring

himself to call on the Drozdovs, as he should have done on their

arrival, to renew the acquaintance of which, so we heard they were

themselves desirous, since they kept asking about him. It was a source

of daily distress to him. He talked of Lizaveta Nikolaevna with an

ecstasy which I was at a loss to understand. No doubt he remembered in

her the child whom he had once loved. But besides that, he imagined for

some unknown reason that he would at once find in her company a solace

for his present misery, and even the solution of his more serious

doubts. He expected to meet in Lizaveta Nikolaevna an extraordinary

being. And yet he did not go to see her though he meant to do so every

day. The worst of it was that I was desperately anxious to be presented

to her and to make her acquaintance, and I could look to no one but

Stepan Trofimovitch to effect this. I was frequently meeting her, in the

street of course, when she was out riding, wearing a riding-habit and

mounted on a fine horse, and accompanied by her cousin, so-called, a

handsome officer, the nephew of the late General Drozdov--and these

meetings made an extraordinary impression on me at the time. My

infatuation lasted only a moment, and I very soon afterwards recognised

the impossibility of my dreams myself--but though it was a fleeting

impression it was a very real one, and so it may well be imagined

how indignant I was at the time with my poor friend for keeping so

obstinately secluded.

All the members of our circle had been officially informed from the

beginning that Stepan Trofimovitch would see nobody for a time, and

begged them to leave him quite alone. He insisted on sending round a

circular notice to this effect, though I tried to dissuade him. I

went round to every one at his request and told everybody that Varvara

Petrovna had given "our old man" (as we all used to call Stepan

Trofimovitch among ourselves) a special job, to arrange in order some

correspondence lasting over many years; that he had shut himself up to

do it and I was helping him. Liputin was the only one I did not have

time to visit, and I kept putting it off--to tell the real truth I was

afraid to go to him. I knew beforehand that he would not believe one

word of my story, that he would certainly imagine that there was some

secret at the bottom of it, which they were trying to hide from him

alone, and as soon as I left him he would set to work to make inquiries

and gossip all over the town. While I was picturing all this to myself

I happened to run across him in the street. It turned out that he had

heard all about it from our friends, whom I had only just informed. But,

strange to say, instead of being inquisitive and asking questions about

Stepan Trofimovitch, he interrupted me, when I began apologising for not

having come to him before, and at once passed to other subjects. It is

true that he had a great deal stored up to tell me. He was in a state

of great excitement, and was delighted to have got hold of me for a

listener. He began talking of the news of the town, of the arrival

of the governor's wife, "with new topics of conversation," of an

opposition party already formed in the club, of how they were all in a

hubbub over the new ideas, and how charmingly this suited him, and so

on. He talked for a quarter of an hour and so amusingly that I could not

tear myself away. Though I could not endure him, yet I must admit he had

the gift of making one listen to him, especially when he was very angry

at something. This man was, in my opinion, a regular spy from his very

nature. At every moment he knew the very latest gossip and all the

trifling incidents of our town, especially the unpleasant ones, and it

was surprising to me how he took things to heart that were sometimes

absolutely no concern of his. It always seemed to me that the leading

feature of his character was envy. When I told Stepan Trofimovitch the

same evening of my meeting Liputin that morning and our conversation,

the latter to my amazement became greatly agitated, and asked me the

wild question: "Does Liputin know or not?"

I began trying to prove that there was no possibility of his finding it

out so soon, and that there was nobody from whom he could hear it. But

Stepan Trofimovitch was not to be shaken. "Well, you may believe it or

not," he concluded unexpectedly at last, "but I'm convinced that he not

only knows every detail of 'our' position, but that he knows something

else besides, something neither you nor I know yet, and perhaps never

shall, or shall only know when it's too late, when there's no turning

back!..."

I said nothing, but these words suggested a great deal. For five whole

days after that we did not say one word about Liputin; it was clear to

me that Stepan Trofimovitch greatly regretted having let his tongue run

away with him, and having revealed such suspicions before me.

II

One morning, on the seventh or eighth day after Stepan Trofimovitch had

consented to become "engaged," about eleven o'clock, when I was hurrying

as usual to my afflicted friend, I had an adventure on the way.

I met Karmazinov, "the great writer," as Liputin called him. I had read

Karmazinov from a child. His novels and tales were well known to the

past and even to the present generation. I revelled in them; they were

the great enjoyment of my childhood and youth. Afterwards I grew rather

less enthusiastic over his work. I did not care so much for the novels

with a purpose which he had been writing of late as for his first,

early works, which were so full of spontaneous poetry, and his latest

publications I had not liked at all. Speaking generally, if I may

venture to express my opinion on so delicate a subject, all these

talented gentlemen of the middling sort who are sometimes in their

lifetime accepted almost as geniuses, pass out of memory quite suddenly

and without a trace when they die, and what's more, it often happens

that even during their lifetime, as soon as a new generation grows up

and takes the place of the one in which they have flourished, they are

forgotten and neglected by every one in an incredibly short time. This

somehow happens among us quite suddenly, like the shifting of the scenes

on the stage. Oh, it's not at all the same as with Pushkin, Gogol,

Molière, Voltaire, all those great men who really had a new original

word to say! It's true, too, that these talented gentlemen of the

middling sort in the decline of their venerable years usually write

themselves out in the most pitiful way, though they don't observe the

fact themselves. It happens not infrequently that a writer who has been

for a long time credited with extraordinary profundity and expected

to exercise a great and serious influence on the progress of society,

betrays in the end such poverty, such insipidity in his fundamental

ideas that no one regrets that he succeeded in writing himself out so

soon. But the old grey-beards don't notice this, and are angry. Their

vanity sometimes, especially towards the end of their career, reaches

proportions that may well provoke wonder. God knows what they begin

to take themselves for--for gods at least! People used to say about

Karmazinov that his connections with aristocratic society and powerful

personages were dearer to him than his own soul, people used to say that

on meeting you he would be cordial, that he would fascinate and enchant

you with his open-heartedness, especially if you were of use to him in

some way, and if you came to him with some preliminary recommendation.

But that before any stray prince, any stray countess, anyone that he

was afraid of, he would regard it as his sacred duty to forget your

existence with the most insulting carelessness, like a chip of wood,

like a fly, before you had even time to get out of his sight; he

seriously considered this the best and most aristocratic style. In spite

of the best of breeding and perfect knowledge of good manners he is,

they say, vain to such an hysterical pitch that he cannot conceal his

irritability as an author even in those circles of society where little

interest is taken in literature. If anyone were to surprise him by being

indifferent, he would be morbidly chagrined, and try to revenge himself.

A year before, I had read an article of his in a review, written with

an immense affectation of naïve poetry, and psychology too. He described

the wreck of some steamer on the English coast, of which he had been

the witness, and how he had seen the drowning people saved, and the

dead bodies brought ashore. All this rather long and verbose article

was written solely with the object of self-display. One seemed to read

between the lines: "Concentrate yourselves on me. Behold what I was like

at those moments. What are the sea, the storm, the rocks, the splinters

of wrecked ships to you? I have described all that sufficiently to you

with my mighty pen. Why look at that drowned woman with the dead child

in her dead arms? Look rather at me, see how I was unable to bear that

sight and turned away from it. Here I stood with my back to it; here

I was horrified and could not bring myself to look; I blinked my

eyes--isn't that interesting?" When I told Stepan Trofimovitch my

opinion of Karmazinov's article he quite agreed with me.

When rumours had reached us of late that Karmazinov was coming to the

neighbourhood I was, of course, very eager to see him, and, if possible,

to make his acquaintance. I knew that this might be done through Stepan

Trofimovitch, they had once been friends. And now I suddenly met him at

the cross-roads. I knew him at once. He had been pointed out to me two

or three days before when he drove past with the governor's wife. He

was a short, stiff-looking old man, though not over fifty-five, with a

rather red little face, with thick grey locks of hair clustering under

his chimney-pot hat, and curling round his clean little pink ears.

His clean little face was not altogether handsome with its thin, long,

crafty-looking lips, with its rather fleshy nose, and its sharp, shrewd

little eyes. He was dressed somewhat shabbily in a sort of cape such as

would be worn in Switzerland or North Italy at that time of year. But,

at any rate, all the minor details of his costume, the little studs,

and collar, the buttons, the tortoise-shell lorgnette on a narrow black

ribbon, the signet-ring, were all such as are worn by persons of the

most irreproachable good form. I am certain that in summer he must have

worn light prunella shoes with mother-of-pearl buttons at the side.

When we met he was standing still at the turning and looking about him,

attentively. Noticing that I was looking at him with interest, he asked

me in a sugary, though rather shrill voice:

"Allow me to ask, which is my nearest way to Bykovy Street?"

"To Bykovy Street? Oh, that's here, close by," I cried in great

excitement. "Straight on along this street and the second turning to the

left."

"Very much obliged to you."

A curse on that minute! I fancy I was shy, and looked cringing. He

instantly noticed all that, and of course realised it all at once; that

is, realised that I knew who he was, that I had read him and revered

him from a child, and that I was shy and looked at him cringingly. He

smiled, nodded again, and walked on as I had directed him. I don't know

why I turned back to follow him; I don't know why I ran for ten paces

beside him. He suddenly stood still again.

"And could you tell me where is the nearest cab-stand?" he shouted out

to me again.

It was a horrid shout! A horrid voice!

"A cab-stand? The nearest cab-stand is... by the Cathedral; there are

always cabs standing there," and I almost turned to run for a cab for

him. I almost believe that that was what he expected me to do. Of

course I checked myself at once, and stood still, but he had noticed

my movement and was still watching me with the same horrid smile. Then

something happened which I shall never forget.

He suddenly dropped a tiny bag, which he was holding in his left

hand; though indeed it was not a bag, but rather a little box, or more

probably some part of a pocket-book, or to be more accurate a little

reticule, rather like an old-fashioned lady's reticule, though I really

don't know what it was. I only know that I flew to pick it up.

I am convinced that I did not really pick it up, but my first motion

was unmistakable. I could not conceal it, and, like a fool, I turned

crimson. The cunning fellow at once got all that could be got out of the

circumstance.

"Don't trouble, I'll pick it up," he pronounced charmingly; that is,

when he was quite sure that I was not going to pick up the reticule, he

picked it up as though forestalling me, nodded once more, and went his

way, leaving me to look like a fool. It was as good as though I had

picked it up myself. For five minutes I considered myself utterly

disgraced forever, but as I reached Stepan Trofimovitch's house I

suddenly burst out laughing; the meeting struck me as so amusing that I

immediately resolved to entertain Stepan Trofimovitch with an account of

it, and even to act the whole scene to him.

III

But this time to my surprise I found an extraordinary change in him. He

pounced on me with a sort of avidity, it is true, as soon as I went in,

and began listening to me, but with such a distracted air that at first

he evidently did not take in my words. But as soon as I pronounced the

name of Karmazinov he suddenly flew into a frenzy.

"Don't speak of him! Don't pronounce that name!" he exclaimed, almost in

a fury. "Here, look, read it! Read it!"

He opened the drawer and threw on the table three small sheets of paper,

covered with a hurried pencil scrawl, all from Varvara Petrovna. The

first letter was dated the day before yesterday, the second had come

yesterday, and the last that day, an hour before. Their contents were

quite trivial, and all referred to Karmazinov and betrayed the vain

and fussy uneasiness of Varvara Petrovna and her apprehension that

Karmazinov might forget to pay her a visit. Here is the first one dating

from two days before. (Probably there had been one also three days

before, and possibly another four days before as well.)

"If he deigns to visit you to-day, not a word about me, I beg. Not the

faintest hint. Don't speak of me, don't mention me.--V. S."

The letter of the day before:

"If he decides to pay you a visit this morning, I think the most

dignified thing would be not to receive him. That's what I think about

it; I don't know what you think.--V. S."

To-day's, the last:

"I feel sure that you're in a regular litter and clouds of tobacco

smoke. I'm sending you Marya and Fomushka. They'll tidy you up in half

an hour. And don't hinder them, but go and sit in the kitchen while they

clear up. I'm sending you a Bokhara rug and two china vases. I've long

been meaning to make you a present of them, and I'm sending you my

Teniers, too, for a time! You can put the vases in the window and hang

the Teniers on the right under the portrait of Goethe; it will be more

conspicuous there and it's always light there in the morning. If he does

turn up at last, receive him with the utmost courtesy but try and talk

of trifling matters, of some intellectual subject, and behave as though

you had seen each other lately. Not a word about me. Perhaps I may look

in on you in the evening.--V. S.

"P.S.--If he does not come to-day he won't come at all."

I read and was amazed that he was in such excitement over such trifles.

Looking at him inquiringly, I noticed that he had had time while I was

reading to change the everlasting white tie he always wore, for a red

one. His hat and stick lay on the table. He was pale, and his hands were

positively trembling.

"I don't care a hang about her anxieties," he cried frantically, in

response to my inquiring look. "_Je m'en fiche!_ She has the face to be

excited about Karmazinov, and she does not answer my letters. Here is

my unopened letter which she sent me back yesterday, here on the table

under the book, under _L'Homme qui rit_. What is it to me that she's

wearing herself out over Nikolay! _Je m'en fiche, et je proclame ma

liberté! Au diable le Karmazinov! Au diable la Lembke!_ I've hidden the

vases in the entry, and the Teniers in the chest of drawers, and I have

demanded that she is to see me at once. Do you hear. I've insisted!

I've sent her just such a scrap of paper, a pencil scrawl, unsealed, by

Nastasya, and I'm waiting. I want Darya Pavlovna to speak to me with

her own lips, before the face of Heaven, or at least before you. _Vous me

seconderez, n'est-ce pas, comme ami et témoin._ I don't want to have

to blush, to lie, I don't want secrets, I won't have secrets in this

matter. Let them confess everything to me openly, frankly, honourably

and then... then perhaps I may surprise the whole generation by my

magnanimity.... Am I a scoundrel or not, my dear sir?" he concluded

suddenly, looking menacingly at me, as though I'd considered him a

scoundrel.

I offered him a sip of water; I had never seen him like this before. All

the while he was talking he kept running from one end of the room to

the other, but he suddenly stood still before me in an extraordinary

attitude.

"Can you suppose," he began again with hysterical haughtiness, looking

me up and down, "can you imagine that I, Stepan Verhovensky, cannot find

in myself the moral strength to take my bag--my beggar's bag--and laying

it on my feeble shoulders to go out at the gate and vanish forever,

when honour and the great principle of independence demand it! It's

not the first time that Stepan Verhovensky has had to repel despotism by

moral force, even though it be the despotism of a crazy woman, that

is, the most cruel and insulting despotism which can exist on earth,

although you have, I fancy, forgotten yourself so much as to laugh at

my phrase, my dear sir! Oh, you don't believe that I can find the moral

strength in myself to end my life as a tutor in a merchant's family, or

to die of hunger in a ditch! Answer me, answer at once; do you believe

it, or don't you believe it?"

But I was purposely silent. I even affected to hesitate to wound him by

answering in the negative, but to be unable to answer affirmatively. In

all this nervous excitement of his there was something which really did

offend me, and not personally, oh, no! But... I will explain later on.

He positively turned pale.

"Perhaps you are bored with me, G----v (this is my surname), and you

would like... not to come and see me at all?" he said in that tone of

pale composure which usually precedes some extraordinary outburst. I

jumped up in alarm. At that moment Nastasya came in, and, without a

word, handed Stepan Trofimovitch a piece of paper, on which something

was written in pencil. He glanced at it and flung it to me. On the

paper, in Varvara Petrovna's hand three words were written: "Stay at

home."

Stepan Trofimovitch snatched up his hat and stick in silence and went

quickly out of the room. Mechanically I followed him. Suddenly voices

and sounds of rapid footsteps were heard in the passage. He stood still,

as though thunder-struck.

"It's Liputin; I am lost!" he whispered, clutching at my arm.

At the same instant Liputin walked into the room.

IV

Why he should be lost owing to Liputin I did not know, and indeed I

did not attach much significance to the words; I put it all down to his

nerves. His terror, however, was remarkable, and I made up my mind to

keep a careful watch on him.

The very appearance of Liputin as he came in assured us that he had on

this occasion a special right to come in, in spite of the prohibition.

He brought with him an unknown gentleman, who must have been a new

arrival in the town. In reply to the senseless stare of my petrified

friend, he called out immediately in a loud voice:

"I'm bringing you a visitor, a special one! I make bold to intrude on

your solitude. Mr. Kirillov, a very distinguished civil engineer. And

what's more he knows your son, the much esteemed Pyotr Stepanovitch,

very intimately; and he has a message from him. He's only just arrived."

"The message is your own addition," the visitor observed curtly.

"There's no message at all. But I certainly do know Verhovensky. I left

him in the X. province, ten days ahead of us."

Stepan Trofimovitch mechanically offered his hand and motioned him to

sit down. He looked at me, he looked at Liputin, and then as though

suddenly recollecting himself sat down himself, though he still kept his

hat and stick in his hands without being aware of it.

"Bah, but you were going out yourself! I was told that you were quite

knocked up with work."

"Yes, I'm ill, and you see, I meant to go for a walk, I..." Stepan

Trofimovitch checked himself, quickly flung his hat and stick on the

sofa and--turned crimson.

Meantime, I was hurriedly examining the visitor. He was a young man,

about twenty-seven, decently dressed, well made, slender and dark, with

a pale, rather muddy-coloured face and black lustreless eyes. He seemed

rather thoughtful and absent-minded, spoke jerkily and ungrammatically,

transposing words in rather a strange way, and getting muddled if he

attempted a sentence of any length. Liputin was perfectly aware of

Stepan Trofimovitch's alarm, and was obviously pleased at it. He sat

down in a wicker chair which he dragged almost into the middle of the

room, so as to be at an equal distance between his host and the visitor,

who had installed themselves on sofas on opposite sides of the room. His

sharp eyes darted inquisitively from one corner of the room to another.

"It's.... a long while since I've seen Petrusha.... You met abroad?"

Stepan Trofimovitch managed to mutter to the visitor.

"Both here and abroad."

"Alexey Nilitch has only just returned himself after living four years

abroad," put in Liputin. "He has been travelling to perfect himself in

his speciality and has come to us because he has good reasons to expect

a job on the building of our railway bridge, and he's now waiting for an

answer about it. He knows the Drozdovs and Lizaveta Nikolaevna, through

Pyotr Stepanovitch."

The engineer sat, as it were, with a ruffled air, and listened with

awkward impatience. It seemed to me that he was angry about something.

"He knows Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch too."

"Do you know Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch?" inquired Stepan Trofimovitch.

"I know him too."

"It's... it's a very long time since I've seen Petrusha, and... I feel

I have so little right to call myself a father... _c'est le mot;_ I... how

did you leave him?"

"Oh, yes, I left him... he comes himself," replied Mr. Kirillov, in

haste to be rid of the question again. He certainly was angry.

"He's coming! At last I... you see, it's very long since I've seen

Petrusha!" Stepan Trofimovitch could not get away from this phrase. "Now

I expect my poor boy to whom... to whom I have been so much to blame!

That is, I mean to say, when I left him in Petersburg, I... in short, I

looked on him as a nonentity, _quelque chose dans ce genre._ He was a very

nervous boy, you know, emotional, and... very timid. When he said his

prayers going to bed he used to bow down to the ground, and make the

sign of the cross on his pillow that he might not die in the night....

_Je m'en souviens. Enfin,_ no artistic feeling whatever, not a sign of

anything higher, of anything fundamental, no embryo of a future

ideal..._c'était comme un petit idiot,_ but I'm afraid I am incoherent;

excuse me... you came upon me..."

"You say seriously that he crossed his pillow?" the engineer asked

suddenly with marked curiosity.

"Yes, he used to..."

"All right. I just asked. Go on."

Stepan Trofimovitch looked interrogatively at Liputin.

"I'm very grateful to you for your visit. But I must confess I'm...

not in a condition... just now... But allow me to ask where you are

lodging."

"At Filipov's, in Bogoyavlensky Street."

"Ach, that's where Shatov lives," I observed involuntarily.

"Just so, in the very same house," cried Liputin, "only Shatov lodges

above, in the attic, while he's down below, at Captain Lebyadkin's. He

knows Shatov too, and he knows Shatov's wife. He was very intimate with

her, abroad."

"_Comment!_ Do you really know anything about that unhappy marriage _de ce

pauvre ami_ and that woman," cried Stepan Trofimovitch, carried away

by sudden feeling. "You are the first man I've met who has known her

personally; and if only..."

"What nonsense!" the engineer snapped out, flushing all over. "How you

add to things, Liputin! I've not seen Shatov's wife; I've only once seen

her in the distance and not at all close.... I know Shatov. Why do you

add things of all sorts?"

He turned round sharply on the sofa, clutched his hat, then laid it down

again, and settling himself down once more as before, fixed his angry

black eyes on Stepan Trofimovitch with a sort of defiance. I was at a

loss to understand such strange irritability.

"Excuse me," Stepan Trofimovitch observed impressively. "I understand

that it may be a very delicate subject...."

"No sort of delicate subject in it, and indeed it's shameful, and I

didn't shout at you that it's nonsense, but at Liputin, because he adds

things. Excuse me if you took it to yourself. I know Shatov, but I don't

know his wife at all... I don't know her at all!"

"I understand. I understand. And if I insisted, it's only because I'm

very fond of our poor friend, _notre irascible ami_, and have always

taken an interest in him.... In my opinion that man changed his former,

possibly over-youthful but yet sound ideas, too abruptly. And now he

says all sorts of things about _notre Sainte Russie_ to such a degree that

I've long explained this upheaval in his whole constitution, I can only

call it that, to some violent shock in his family life, and, in fact, to

his unsuccessful marriage. I, who know my poor Russia like the fingers

on my hand, and have devoted my whole life to the Russian people, I can

assure you that he does not know the Russian people, and what's more..."

"I don't know the Russian people at all, either, and I haven't time to

study them," the engineer snapped out again, and again he turned sharply

on the sofa. Stepan Trofimovitch was pulled up in the middle of his

speech.

"He is studying them, he is studying them," interposed Liputin. "He

has already begun the study of them, and is writing a very interesting

article dealing with the causes of the increase of suicide in Russia,

and, generally speaking, the causes that lead to the increase or

decrease of suicide in society. He has reached amazing results."

The engineer became dreadfully excited. "You have no right at all," he

muttered wrathfully. "I'm not writing an article. I'm not going to do

silly things. I asked you confidentially, quite by chance. There's

no article at all. I'm not publishing, and you haven't the right..."

Liputin was obviously enjoying himself.

"I beg your pardon, perhaps I made a mistake in calling your literary

work an article. He is only collecting observations, and the essence of

the question, or, so to say, its moral aspect he is not touching at all.

And, indeed, he rejects morality itself altogether, and holds with the

last new principle of general destruction for the sake of ultimate

good. He demands already more than a hundred million heads for the

establishment of common sense in Europe; many more than they demanded at

the last Peace Congress. Alexey Nilitch goes further than anyone in that

sense." The engineer listened with a pale and contemptuous smile. For

half a minute every one was silent.

"All this is stupid, Liputin," Mr. Kirillov observed at last, with a

certain dignity. "If I by chance had said some things to you, and you

caught them up again, as you like. But you have no right, for I never

speak to anyone. I scorn to talk.... If one has a conviction then it's

clear to me.... But you're doing foolishly. I don't argue about things

when everything's settled. I can't bear arguing. I never want to

argue...."

"And perhaps you are very wise," Stepan Trofimovitch could not resist

saying.

"I apologise to you, but I am not angry with anyone here," the visitor

went on, speaking hotly and rapidly. "I have seen few people for four

years. For four years I have talked little and have tried to see no one,

for my own objects which do not concern anyone else, for four years.

Liputin found this out and is laughing. I understand and don't mind. I'm

not ready to take offence, only annoyed at his liberty. And if I don't

explain my ideas to you," he concluded unexpectedly, scanning us all

with resolute eyes, "it's not at all that I'm afraid of your giving

information to the government; that's not so; please do not imagine

nonsense of that sort."

No one made any reply to these words. We only looked at each other. Even

Liputin forgot to snigger.

"Gentlemen, I'm very sorry"--Stepan Trofimovitch got up resolutely from

the sofa--"but I feel ill and upset. Excuse me."

"Ach, that's for us to go." Mr. Kirillov started, snatching up his cap.

"It's a good thing you told us. I'm so forgetful."

He rose, and with a good-natured air went up to Stepan Trofimovitch,

holding out his hand.

"I'm sorry you're not well, and I came."

"I wish you every success among us," answered Stepan Trofimovitch,

shaking hands with him heartily and without haste. "I understand that,

if as you say you have lived so long abroad, cutting yourself off

from people for objects of your own and forgetting Russia, you must

inevitably look with wonder on us who are Russians to the backbone, and

we must feel the same about you. _Mais cela passera._ I'm only puzzled at

one thing: you want to build our bridge and at the same time you declare

that you hold with the principle of universal destruction. They won't

let you build our bridge."

"What! What's that you said? Ach, I say!" Kirillov cried, much struck,

and he suddenly broke into the most frank and good-humoured laughter.

For a moment his face took a quite childlike expression, which I thought

suited him particularly. Liputin rubbed his hand with delight at Stepan

Trofimovitch's witty remark. I kept wondering to myself why Stepan

Trofimovitch was so frightened of Liputin, and why he had cried out "I

am lost" when he heard him coming.

V

We were all standing in the doorway. It was the moment when hosts and

guests hurriedly exchange the last and most cordial words, and then

part to their mutual gratification.

"The reason he's so cross to-day," Liputin dropped all at once, as it

were casually, when he was just going out of the room, "is because he

had a disturbance to-day with Captain Lebyadkin over his sister. Captain

Lebyadkin thrashes that precious sister of his, the mad girl, every day

with a whip, a real Cossack whip, every morning and evening. So Alexey

Nilitch has positively taken the lodge so as not to be present. Well,

good-bye."

"A sister? An invalid? With a whip?" Stepan Trofimovitch cried out, as

though he had suddenly been lashed with a whip himself. "What sister?

What Lebyadkin?" All his former terror came back in an instant.

"Lebyadkin! Oh, that's the retired captain; he used only to call himself

a lieutenant before...."

"Oh, what is his rank to me? What sister? Good heavens!... You say

Lebyadkin? But there used to be a Lebyadkin here...."

"That's the very man. 'Our' Lebyadkin, at Virginsky's, you remember?"

"But he was caught with forged papers?"

"Well, now he's come back. He's been here almost three weeks and under

the most peculiar circumstances."

"Why, but he's a scoundrel?"

"As though no one could be a scoundrel among us," Liputin grinned

suddenly, his knavish little eyes seeming to peer into Stepan

Trofimovitch's soul.

"Good heavens! I didn't mean that at all... though I quite agree with

you about that, with you particularly. But what then, what then? What

did you mean by that? You certainly meant something by that."

"Why, it's all so trivial.... This captain to all appearances went away

from us at that time; not because of the forged papers, but simply to

look for his sister, who was in hiding from him somewhere, it seems;

well, and now he's brought her and that's the whole story. Why do you

seem frightened, Stepan Trofimovitch? I only tell this from his drunken

chatter though, he doesn't speak of it himself when he's sober. He's an

irritable man, and, so to speak, æsthetic in a military style; only he

has bad taste. And this sister is lame as well as mad. She seems to

have been seduced by someone, and Mr. Lebyadkin has, it seems, for many

years received a yearly grant from the seducer by way of compensation

for the wound to his honour, so it would seem at least from his chatter,

though I believe it's only drunken talk. It's simply his brag. Besides,

that sort of thing is done much cheaper. But that he has a sum of money

is perfectly certain. Ten days ago he was walking barefoot, and now I've

seen hundreds in his hands. His sister has fits of some sort every day,

she shrieks and he 'keeps her in order' with the whip. You must inspire

a woman with respect, he says. What I can't understand is how Shatov

goes on living above him. Alexey Nilitch has only been three days with

them. They were acquainted in Petersburg, and now he's taken the lodge

to get away from the disturbance."

"Is this all true?" said Stepan Trofimovitch, addressing the engineer.

"You do gossip a lot, Liputin," the latter muttered wrathfully.

"Mysteries, secrets! Where have all these mysteries and secrets among us

sprung from?" Stepan Trofimovitch could not refrain from exclaiming.

The engineer frowned, flushed red, shrugged his shoulders and went out

of the room.

"Alexey Nilitch positively snatched the whip out of his hand, broke it

and threw it out of the window, and they had a violent quarrel," added

Liputin.

"Why are you chattering, Liputin; it's stupid. What for?" Alexey Nilitch

turned again instantly.

"Why be so modest and conceal the generous impulses of one's soul; that

is, of your soul? I'm not speaking of my own."

"How stupid it is... and quite unnecessary. Lebyadkin's stupid and quite

worthless--and no use to the cause, and... utterly mischievous. Why do

you keep babbling all sorts of things? I'm going."

"Oh, what a pity!" cried Liputin with a candid smile, "or I'd have

amused you with another little story, Stepan Trofimovitch. I came,

indeed, on purpose to tell you, though I dare say you've heard it

already. Well, till another time, Alexey Nilitch is in such a hurry.

Good-bye for the present. The story concerns Varvara Petrovna. She

amused me the day before yesterday; she sent for me on purpose. It's

simply killing. Good-bye."

But at this Stepan Trofimovitch absolutely would not let him go. He

seized him by the shoulders, turned him sharply back into the room, and

sat him down in a chair. Liputin was positively scared.

"Why, to be sure," he began, looking warily at Stepan Trofimovitch from

his chair, "she suddenly sent for me and asked me 'confidentially' my

private opinion, whether Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch is mad or in his right

mind. Isn't that astonishing?"

"You're out of your mind!" muttered Stepan Trofimovitch, and suddenly,

as though he were beside himself: "Liputin, you know perfectly well that

you only came here to tell me something insulting of that sort and...

something worse!"

In a flash, I recalled his conjecture that Liputin knew not only more

than we did about our affair, but something else which we should never

know.

"Upon my word, Stepan Trofimovitch," muttered Liputin, seeming greatly

alarmed, "upon my word..."

"Hold your tongue and begin! I beg you, Mr. Kirillov, to come back too,

and be present. I earnestly beg you! Sit down, and you, Liputin, begin

directly, simply and without any excuses."

"If I had only known it would upset you so much I wouldn't have begun at

all. And of course I thought you knew all about it from Varvara Petrovna

herself."

"You didn't think that at all. Begin, begin, I tell you."

"Only do me the favour to sit down yourself, or how can I sit here

when you are running about before me in such excitement. I can't speak

coherently."

Stepan Trofimovitch restrained himself and sank impressively into an

easy chair. The engineer stared gloomily at the floor. Liputin looked at

them with intense enjoyment,

"How am I to begin?... I'm too overwhelmed...."

VI

"The day before yesterday a servant was suddenly sent to me: 'You are

asked to call at twelve o'clock,' said he. Can you fancy such a thing? I

threw aside my work, and precisely at midday yesterday I was ringing at

the bell. I was let into the drawing room; I waited a minute--she came

in; she made me sit down and sat down herself, opposite. I sat down, and

I couldn't believe it; you know how she has always treated me. She

began at once without beating about the bush, you know her way. 'You

remember,' she said, 'that four years ago when Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch

was ill he did some strange things which made all the town wonder

till the position was explained. One of those actions concerned you

personally. When Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch recovered he went at my request

to call on you. I know that he talked to you several times before, too.

Tell me openly and candidly what you... (she faltered a little at this

point) what you thought of Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch then... what was your

view of him altogether... what idea you were able to form of him at that

time... and still have?'

"Here she was completely confused, so that she paused for a whole

minute, and suddenly flushed. I was alarmed. She began again--touchingly

is not quite the word, it's not applicable to her--but in a very

impressive tone:

"'I want you,' she said, 'to understand me clearly and without mistake.

I've sent for you now because I look upon you as a keen-sighted and

quick-witted man, qualified to make accurate observations.' (What

compliments!) 'You'll understand too,' she said, 'that I am a mother

appealing to you.... Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch has suffered some

calamities and has passed through many changes of fortune in his life.

All that,' she said, 'might well have affected the state of his mind.

I'm not speaking of madness, of course,' she said, 'that's quite out

of the question!' (This was uttered proudly and resolutely.) 'But there

might be something strange, something peculiar, some turn of thought, a

tendency to some particular way of looking at things.' (Those were her

exact words, and I admired, Stepan Trofimovitch, the exactness with

which Varvara Petrovna can put things. She's a lady of superior

intellect!) 'I have noticed in him, anyway,' she said, 'a perpetual

restlessness and a tendency to peculiar impulses. But I am a mother

and you are an impartial spectator, and therefore qualified with your

intelligence to form a more impartial opinion. I implore you, in fact'

(yes, that word, 'implore' was uttered!), 'to tell me the whole truth,

without mincing matters. And if you will give me your word never to

forget that I have spoken to you in confidence, you may reckon upon my

always being ready to seize every opportunity in the future to show my

gratitude.' Well, what do you say to that?"

"You have... so amazed me..." faltered Stepan Trofimovitch, "that I

don't believe you."

"Yes, observe, observe," cried Liputin, as though he had not heard

Stepan Trofimovitch, "observe what must be her agitation and uneasiness

if she stoops from her grandeur to appeal to a man like me, and even

condescends to beg me to keep it secret. What do you call that?

Hasn't she received some news of Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, something

unexpected?"

"I don't know... of news of any sort... I haven't seen her for some

days, but... but I must say..." lisped Stepan Trofimovitch, evidently

hardly able to think clearly, "but I must say, Liputin, that if it

was said to you in confidence, and here you're telling it before every

one..."

"Absolutely in confidence! But God strike me dead if I... But as for

telling it here... what does it matter? Are we strangers, even Alexey

Nilitch?"

"I don't share that attitude. No doubt we three here will keep the

secret, but I'm afraid of the fourth, you, and wouldn't trust you in

anything...."

"What do you mean by that? Why it's more to my interest than anyone's,

seeing I was promised eternal gratitude! What I wanted was to point

out in this connection one extremely strange incident, rather to

say, psychological than simply strange. Yesterday evening, under the

influence of my conversation with Varvara Petrovna--you can fancy

yourself what an impression it made on me--I approached Alexey Nilitch

with a discreet question: 'You knew Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch abroad,'

said I, 'and used to know him before in Petersburg too. What do you

think of his mind and his abilities?' said I. He answered laconically,

as his way is, that he was a man of subtle intellect and sound judgment.

'And have you never noticed in the course of years,' said I, 'any

turn of ideas or peculiar way of looking at things, or any, so to say,

insanity?' In fact, I repeated Varvara Petrovna's own question. And

would you believe it, Alexey Nilitch suddenly grew thoughtful, and

scowled, just as he's doing now. 'Yes,' said he, 'I have sometimes

thought there was something strange.' Take note, too, that if anything

could have seemed strange even to Alexey Nilitch, it must really have

been something, mustn't it?"

"Is that true?" said Stepan Trofimovitch, turning to Alexey Nilitch.

"I should prefer not to speak of it," answered Alexey Nilitch, suddenly

raising his head, and looking at him with flashing eyes. "I wish to

contest your right to do this, Liputin. You've no right to drag me into

this. I did not give my whole opinion at all. Though I knew Nikolay

Stavrogin in Petersburg that was long ago, and though I've met him since

I know him very little. I beg you to leave me out and... All this is

something like scandal."

Liputin threw up his hands with an air of oppressed innocence.

"A scandal-monger! Why not say a spy while you're about it? It's all

very well for you, Alexey Nilitch, to criticise when you stand aloof

from everything. But you wouldn't believe it, Stepan Trofimovitch--take

Captain Lebyadkin, he is stupid enough, one may say... in fact, one's

ashamed to say how stupid he is; there is a Russian comparison, to

signify the degree of it; and do you know he considers himself injured

by Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, though he is full of admiration for his wit.

'I'm amazed,' said he, 'at that man. He's a subtle serpent.' His own

words. And I said to him (still under the influence of my conversation,

and after I had spoken to Alexey Nilitch), 'What do you think, captain,

is your subtle serpent mad or not?' Would you believe it, it was just as

if I'd given him a sudden lash from behind. He simply leapt up from his

seat. 'Yes,' said he, '... yes, only that,' he said, 'cannot affect...'

'Affect what?' He didn't finish. Yes, and then he fell to thinking so

bitterly, thinking so much, that his drunkenness dropped off him. We

were sitting in Filipov's restaurant. And it wasn't till half an hour

later that he suddenly struck the table with his fist. 'Yes,' said he,

'maybe he's mad, but that can't affect it....' Again he didn't say what

it couldn't affect. Of course I'm only giving you an extract of the

conversation, but one can understand the sense of it. You may ask whom

you like, they all have the same idea in their heads, though it never

entered anyone's head before. 'Yes,' they say, 'he's mad; he's very

clever, but perhaps he's mad too.'"

Stepan Trofimovitch sat pondering, and thought intently.

"And how does Lebyadkin know?"

"Do you mind inquiring about that of Alexey Nilitch, who has just called

me a spy? I'm a spy, yet I don't know, but Alexey Nilitch knows all the

ins and outs of it, and holds his tongue."

"I know nothing about it, or hardly anything," answered the engineer

with the same irritation. "You make Lebyadkin drunk to find out. You

brought me here to find out and to make me say. And so you must be a

spy."

"I haven't made him drunk yet, and he's not worth the money either, with

all his secrets. They are not worth that to me. I don't know what they

are to you. On the contrary, he is scattering the money, though twelve

days ago he begged fifteen kopecks of me, and it's he treats me to

champagne, not I him. But you've given me an idea, and if there should

be occasion I will make him drunk, just to get to the bottom of it and

maybe I shall find out... all your little secrets," Liputin snapped back

spitefully.

Stepan Trofimovitch looked in bewilderment at the two disputants. Both

were giving themselves away, and what's more, were not standing on

ceremony. The thought crossed my mind that Liputin had brought this

Alexey Nilitch to us with the simple object of drawing him into a

conversation through a third person for purposes of his own--his

favourite manoeuvre.

"Alexey Nilitch knows Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch quite well," he went on,

irritably, "only he conceals it. And as to your question about Captain

Lebyadkin, he made his acquaintance before any of us did, six years ago

in Petersburg, in that obscure, if one may so express it, epoch in the

life of Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, before he had dreamed of rejoicing our

hearts by coming here. Our prince, one must conclude, surrounded himself

with rather a queer selection of acquaintances. It was at that time, it

seems, that he made acquaintance with this gentleman here."

"Take care, Liputin. I warn you, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch meant to be

here soon himself, and he knows how to defend himself."

"Why warn me? I am the first to cry out that he is a man of the most

subtle and refined intelligence, and I quite reassured Varvara Petrovna

yesterday on that score. 'It's his character,' I said to her, 'that I

can't answer for.' Lebyadkin said the same thing yesterday: 'A lot of

harm has come to me from his character,' he said. Stepan Trofimovitch,

it's all very well for you to cry out about slander and spying, and at

the very time observe that you wring it all out of me, and with such

immense curiosity too. Now, Varvara Petrovna went straight to the point

yesterday. 'You have had a personal interest in the business,' she said,

'that's why I appeal to you.' I should say so! What need to look for

motives when I've swallowed a personal insult from his excellency before

the whole society of the place. I should think I have grounds to be

interested, not merely for the sake of gossip. He shakes hands with

you one day, and next day, for no earthly reason, he returns your

hospitality by slapping you on the cheeks in the face of all decent

society, if the fancy takes him, out of sheer wantonness. And what's

more, the fair sex is everything for them, these butterflies and

mettlesome cocks! Grand gentlemen with little wings like the ancient

cupids, lady-killing Petchorins! It's all very well for you, Stepan

Trofimovitch, a confirmed bachelor, to talk like that, stick up for his

excellency and call me a slanderer. But if you married a pretty young

wife--as you're still such a fine fellow--then I dare say you'd bolt

your door against our prince, and throw up barricades in your house!

Why, if only that Mademoiselle Lebyadkin, who is thrashed with a whip,

were not mad and bandy-legged, by Jove, I should fancy she was the

victim of the passions of our general, and that it was from him that

Captain Lebyadkin had suffered 'in his family dignity,' as he expresses

it himself. Only perhaps that is inconsistent with his refined taste,

though, indeed, even that's no hindrance to him. Every berry is worth

picking if only he's in the mood for it. You talk of slander, but I'm

not crying this aloud though the whole town is ringing with it; I only

listen and assent. That's not prohibited."

"The town's ringing with it? What's the town ringing with?"

"That is, Captain Lebyadkin is shouting for all the town to hear, and

isn't that just the same as the market-place ringing with it? How am I

to blame? I interest myself in it only among friends, for, after all,

I consider myself among friends here." He looked at us with an innocent

air. "Something's happened, only consider: they say his excellency has

sent three hundred roubles from Switzerland by a most honourable young

lady, and, so to say, modest orphan, whom I have the honour of knowing,

to be handed over to Captain Lebyadkin. And Lebyadkin, a little later,

was told as an absolute fact also by a very honourable and therefore

trustworthy person, I won't say whom, that not three hundred but a

thousand roubles had been sent!... And so, Lebyadkin keeps crying out

'the young lady has grabbed seven hundred roubles belonging to me,' and

he's almost ready to call in the police; he threatens to, anyway, and

he's making an uproar all over the town."

"This is vile, vile of you!" cried the engineer, leaping up suddenly

from his chair.

"But I say, you are yourself the honourable person who brought word

to Lebyadkin from Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch that a thousand roubles were

sent, not three hundred. Why, the captain told me so himself when he was

drunk."

"It's... it's an unhappy misunderstanding. Some one's made a mistake and

it's led to... It's nonsense, and it's base of you."

"But I'm ready to believe that it's nonsense, and I'm distressed at the

story, for, take it as you will, a girl of an honourable reputation

is implicated first over the seven hundred roubles, and secondly in

unmistakable intimacy with Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch. For how much does it

mean to his excellency to disgrace a girl of good character, or put to

shame another man's wife, like that incident with me? If he comes across

a generous-hearted man he'll force him to cover the sins of others under

the shelter of his honourable name. That's just what I had to put up

with, I'm speaking of myself...."

"Be careful, Liputin." Stepan Trofimovitch got up from his easy chair

and turned pale.

"Don't believe it, don't believe it! Somebody has made a mistake

and Lebyadkin's drunk..." exclaimed the engineer in indescribable

excitement. "It will all be explained, but I can't.... And I think it's

low.... And that's enough, enough!"

He ran out of the room.

"What are you about? Why, I'm going with you!" cried Liputin, startled.

He jumped up and ran after Alexey Nilitch.

VII

Stepan Trofimovitch stood a moment reflecting, looked at me as though he

did not see me, took up his hat and stick and walked quietly out of

the room. I followed him again, as before. As we went out of the gate,

noticing that I was accompanying him, he said:

"Oh yes, you may serve as a witness..._de l'accident. Vous

m'accompagnerez, n'est-ce pas?_"

"Stepan Trofimovitch, surely you're not going there again? Think what

may come of it!"

With a pitiful and distracted smile, a smile of shame and utter despair,

and at the same time of a sort of strange ecstasy, he whispered to me,

standing still for an instant:

"I can't marry to cover 'another man's sins'!"

These words were just what I was expecting. At last that fatal sentence

that he had kept hidden from me was uttered aloud, after a whole week of

shuffling and pretence. I was positively enraged.

"And you, Stepan Verhovensky, with your luminous mind, your kind heart,

can harbour such a dirty, such a low idea... and could before Liputin

came!"

He looked at me, made no answer and walked on in the same direction.

I did not want to be left behind. I wanted to give Varvara Petrovna my

version. I could have forgiven him if he had simply with his womanish

faint-heartedness believed Liputin, but now it was clear that he

had thought of it all himself long before, and that Liputin had only

confirmed his suspicions and poured oil on the flames. He had not

hesitated to suspect the girl from the very first day, before he had any

kind of grounds, even Liputin's words, to go upon. Varvara Petrovna's

despotic behaviour he had explained to himself as due to her haste

to cover up the aristocratic misdoings of her precious "Nicolas" by

marrying the girl to an honourable man! I longed for him to be punished

for it.

"_Oh, Dieu, qui est si grand et si bon!_ Oh, who will comfort me!" he

exclaimed, halting suddenly again, after walking a hundred paces.

"Come straight home and I'll make everything clear to you," I cried,

turning him by force towards home.

"It's he! Stepan Trofimovitch, it's you? You?" A fresh, joyous young

voice rang out like music behind us.

We had seen nothing, but a lady on horseback suddenly made her

appearance beside us--Lizaveta Nikolaevna with her invariable companion.

She pulled up her horse.

"Come here, come here quickly!" she called to us, loudly and merrily.

"It's twelve years since I've seen him, and I know him, while he.... Do

you really not know me?"

Stepan Trofimovitch clasped the hand held out to him and kissed it

reverently. He gazed at her as though he were praying and could not

utter a word.

"He knows me, and is glad! Mavriky Nikolaevitch, he's delighted to see

me! Why is it you haven't been to see us all this fortnight? Auntie

tried to persuade me you were ill and must not be disturbed; but I know

Auntie tells lies. I kept stamping and swearing at you, but I had made

up my mind, quite made up my mind, that you should come to me first,

that was why I didn't send to you. Heavens, why he hasn't changed a

bit!" She scrutinised him, bending down from the saddle. "He's absurdly

unchanged. Oh, yes, he has wrinkles, a lot of wrinkles, round his eyes

and on his cheeks some grey hair, but his eyes are just the same. And

have I changed? Have I changed? Why don't you say something?"

I remembered at that moment the story that she had been almost ill when

she was taken away to Petersburg at eleven years old, and that she had

cried during her illness and asked for Stepan Trofimovitch.

"You... I..." he faltered now in a voice breaking with joy. "I was just

crying out 'who will comfort me?' and I heard your voice. I look on it

as a miracle _et je commence à croire_."

"_En Dieu! En Dieu qui est là-haut et qui est si grand et si bon!_ You

see, I know all your lectures by heart. Mavriky Nikolaevitch, what faith

he used to preach to me then, _en Dieu qui est si grand et si bon!_ And do

you remember your story of how Columbus discovered America, and they

all cried out, 'Land! land!'? My nurse Alyona Frolovna says I was

light-headed at night afterwards, and kept crying out 'land! land!'

in my sleep. And do you remember how you told me the story of Prince

Hamlet? And do you remember how you described to me how the poor

emigrants were transported from Europe to America? And it was all

untrue; I found out afterwards how they were transited. But what

beautiful fibs he used to tell me then, Mavriky Nikolaevitch! They were

better than the truth. Why do you look at Mavriky Nikolaevitch like

that? He is the best and finest man on the face of the globe and you must

like him just as you do me! _Il fait tout ce que je veux._ But, dear Stepan

Trofimovitch, you must be unhappy again, since you cry out in the middle

of the street asking who will comfort you. Unhappy, aren't you? Aren't

you?"

"Now I'm happy...."

"Aunt is horrid to you?" she went on, without listening. "She's just the

same as ever, cross, unjust, and always our precious aunt! And do

you remember how you threw yourself into my arms in the garden and I

comforted you and cried--don't be afraid of Mavriky Nikolaevitch; he has

known all about you, everything, for ever so long; you can weep on his

shoulder as long as you like, and he'll stand there as long as you like!

... Lift up your hat, take it off altogether for a minute, lift up your

head, stand on tiptoe, I want to kiss you on the forehead as I kissed

you for the last time when we parted. Do you see that young lady's

admiring us out of the window? Come closer, closer! Heavens! How grey he

is!"

And bending over in the saddle she kissed him on the forehead.

"Come, now to your home! I know where you live. I'll be with you

directly, in a minute. I'll make you the first visit, you stubborn man,

and then I must have you for a whole day at home. You can go and make

ready for me."

And she galloped off with her cavalier. We returned. Stepan Trofimovitch

sat down on the sofa and began to cry.

_"Dieu, Dieu."_ he exclaimed, _"enfin une minute de bonheur!"_

Not more than ten minutes afterwards she reappeared according to her

promise, escorted by her Mavriky Nikolaevitch.

_"Vous et le bonheur, vous arrivez en même temps!"_ He got up to meet her.

"Here's a nosegay for you; I rode just now to Madame Chevalier's, she

has flowers all the winter for name-days. Here's Mavriky Nikolaevitch,

please make friends. I wanted to bring you a cake instead of a nosegay,

but Mavriky Nikolaevitch declares that is not in the Russian spirit."

Mavriky Nikolaevitch was an artillery captain, a tall and handsome man

of thirty-three, irreproachably correct in appearance, with an imposing

and at first sight almost stern countenance, in spite of his wonderful

and delicate kindness which no one could fail to perceive almost the

first moment of making his acquaintance. He was taciturn, however,

seemed very self-possessed and made no efforts to gain friends. Many

of us said later that he was by no means clever; but this was not

altogether just.

I won't attempt to describe the beauty of Lizaveta Nikolaevna. The

whole town was talking of it, though some of our ladies and young girls

indignantly differed on the subject. There were some among them who

already detested her, and principally for her pride. The Drozdovs had

scarcely begun to pay calls, which mortified them, though the real

reason for the delay was Praskovya Ivanovna's invalid state. They

detested her in the second place because she was a relative of

the governor's wife, and thirdly because she rode out every day on

horseback. We had never had young ladies who rode on horseback before;

it was only natural that the appearance of Lizaveta Nikolaevna on

horseback and her neglect to pay calls was bound to offend local

society. Yet every one knew that riding was prescribed her by the

doctor's orders, and they talked sarcastically of her illness. She

really was ill. What struck me at first sight in her was her abnormal,

nervous, incessant restlessness. Alas, the poor girl was very unhappy,

and everything was explained later. To-day, recalling the past, I should

not say she was such a beauty as she seemed to me then. Perhaps she was

really not pretty at all. Tall, slim, but strong and supple, she struck

one by the irregularities of the lines of her face. Her eyes were set

somewhat like a Kalmuck's, slanting; she was pale and thin in the

face with high cheek-bones, but there was something in the face that

conquered and fascinated! There was something powerful in the ardent

glance of her dark eyes. She always made her appearance "like a

conquering heroine, and to spread her conquests." She seemed proud and

at times even arrogant. I don't know whether she succeeded in being

kind, but I know that she wanted to, and made terrible efforts to force

herself to be a little kind. There were, no doubt, many fine impulses

and the very best elements in her character, but everything in her

seemed perpetually seeking its balance and unable to find it; everything

was in chaos, in agitation, in uneasiness. Perhaps the demands she made

upon herself were too severe, and she was never able to find in herself

the strength to satisfy them.

She sat on the sofa and looked round the room.

"Why do I always begin to feel sad at such moments; explain that

mystery, you learned person? I've been thinking all my life that

I should be goodness knows how pleased at seeing you and recalling

everything, and here I somehow don't feel pleased at all, although I do

love you.... Ach, heavens! He has my portrait on the wall! Give it here.

I remember it! I remember it!"

An exquisite miniature in water-colour of Liza at twelve years old had

been sent nine years before to Stepan Trofimovitch from Petersburg by

the Drozdovs. He had kept it hanging on his wall ever since.

"Was I such a pretty child? Can that really have been my face?"

She stood up, and with the portrait in her hand looked in the

looking-glass.

"Make haste, take it!" she cried, giving back the portrait. "Don't hang

it up now, afterwards. I don't want to look at it."

She sat down on the sofa again. "One life is over and another is begun,

then that one is over--a third begins, and so on, endlessly. All the

ends are snipped off as it were with scissors. See what stale things I'm

telling you. Yet how much truth there is in them!"

She looked at me, smiling; she had glanced at me several times already,

but in his excitement Stepan Trofimovitch forgot that he had promised

to introduce me.

"And why have you hung my portrait under those daggers? And why have you

got so many daggers and sabres?"

He had as a fact hanging on the wall, I don't know why, two crossed

daggers and above them a genuine Circassian sabre. As she asked this

question she looked so directly at me that I wanted to answer, but

hesitated to speak. Stepan Trofimovitch grasped the position at last and

introduced me.

"I know, I know," she said, "I'm delighted to meet you. Mother has

heard a great deal about you, too. Let me introduce you to Mavriky

Nikolaevitch too, he's a splendid person. I had formed a funny notion of

you already. You're Stepan Trofimovitch's confidant, aren't you?"

I turned rather red.

"Ach, forgive me, please. I used quite the wrong word: not funny at all,

but only..." She was confused and blushed. "Why be ashamed though at

your being a splendid person? Well, it's time we were going, Mavriky

Nikolaevitch! Stepan Trofimovitch, you must be with us in half an hour.

Mercy, what a lot we shall talk! Now I'm your confidante, and about

everything, _everything,_ you understand?"

Stepan Trofimovitch was alarmed at once.

"Oh, Mavriky Nikolaevitch knows everything, don't mind him!"

"What does he know?"

"Why, what do you mean?" she cried in astonishment. "Bah, why it's true

then that they're hiding it! I wouldn't believe it! And they're hiding

Dasha, too. Aunt wouldn't let me go in to see Dasha to-day. She says

she's got a headache."

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

"My goodness, like every one else. That needs no cunning!"

"But does every one else...?"

"Why, of course. Mother, it's true, heard it first through Alyona

Frolovna, my nurse; your Nastasya ran round to tell her. You told

Nastasya, didn't you? She says you told her yourself."

"I... I did once speak," Stepan Trofimovitch faltered, crimsoning all

over, "but... I only hinted... _j'étais si nerveux et malade, et

puis_..."

She laughed.

"And your confidant didn't happen to be at hand, and Nastasya turned up.

Well that was enough! And the whole town's full of her cronies! Come, it

doesn't matter, let them know; it's all the better. Make haste and come

to us, we dine early.... Oh, I forgot," she added, sitting down again;

"listen, what sort of person is Shatov?"

"Shatov? He's the brother of Darya Pavlovna."

"I know he's her brother! What a person you are, really," she

interrupted impatiently. "I want to know what he's like; what sort of

man he is."

_"C'est un pense-creux d'ici. C'est le meilleur et le plus irascible

homme du monde."_

"I've heard that he's rather queer. But that wasn't what I meant. I've

heard that he knows three languages, one of them English, and can do

literary work. In that case I've a lot of work for him. I want someone

to help me and the sooner the better. Would he take the work or not?

He's been recommended to me...."

"Oh, most certainly he will. _Et vous ferez un bienfait_...."

"I'm not doing it as a _bienfait_. I need someone to help me."

"I know Shatov pretty well," I said, "and if you will trust me with a

message to him I'll go to him this minute."

"Tell him to come to me at twelve o'clock to-morrow morning. Capital!

Thank you. Mavriky Nikolaevitch, are you ready?"

They went away. I ran at once, of course, to Shatov.

_"Mon ami!"_ said Stepan Trofimovitch, overtaking me on the steps. "Be

sure to be at my lodging at ten or eleven o'clock when I come back. Oh,

I've acted very wrongly in my conduct to you and to every one."

VIII

I did not find Shatov at home. I ran round again, two hours later. He

was still out. At last, at eight o'clock I went to him again, meaning

to leave a note if I did not find him; again I failed to find him. His

lodging was shut up, and he lived alone without a servant of any sort.

I did think of knocking at Captain Lebyadkin's down below to ask about

Shatov; but it was all shut up below, too, and there was no sound or

light as though the place were empty. I passed by Lebyadkin's door with

curiosity, remembering the stories I had heard that day. Finally, I made

up my mind to come very early next morning. To tell the truth I did not

put much confidence in the effect of a note. Shatov might take no notice

of it; he was so obstinate and shy. Cursing my want of success, I was

going out of the gate when all at once I stumbled on Mr. Kirillov.

He was going into the house and he recognised me first. As he began

questioning me of himself, I told him how things were, and that I had a

note.

"Let us go in," said he, "I will do everything."

I remembered that Liputin had told us he had taken the wooden lodge in

the yard that morning. In the lodge, which was too large for him, a deaf

old woman who waited upon him was living too. The owner of the house had

moved into a new house in another street, where he kept a restaurant,

and this old woman, a relation of his, I believe, was left behind to

look after everything in the old house. The rooms in the lodge were

fairly clean, though the wall-papers were dirty. In the one we went into

the furniture was of different sorts, picked up here and there, and all

utterly worthless. There were two card-tables, a chest of drawers made

of elder, a big deal table that must have come from some peasant hut

or kitchen, chairs and a sofa with trellis-work back and hard leather

cushions. In one corner there was an old-fashioned ikon, in front of

which the old woman had lighted a lamp before we came in, and on the

walls hung two dingy oil-paintings, one, a portrait of the Tsar Nikolas

I, painted apparently between 1820 and 1830; the other the portrait of

some bishop. Mr. Kirillov lighted a candle and took out of his trunk,

which stood not yet unpacked in a corner, an envelope, sealing-wax, and

a glass seal.

"Seal your note and address the envelope."

I would have objected that this was unnecessary, but he insisted. When I

had addressed the envelope I took my cap.

"I was thinking you'd have tea," he said. "I have bought tea. Will you?"

I could not refuse. The old woman soon brought in the tea, that is, a

very large tea-pot of boiling water, a little tea-pot full of strong

tea, two large earthenware cups, coarsely decorated, a fancy loaf, and a

whole deep saucer of lump sugar.

"I love tea at night," said he. "I walk much and drink it till daybreak.

Abroad tea at night is inconvenient."

"You go to bed at daybreak?"

"Always; for a long while. I eat little; always tea. Liputin's sly, but

impatient."

I was surprised at his wanting to talk; I made up my mind to take

advantage of the opportunity. "There were unpleasant misunderstandings

this morning," I observed.

He scowled.

"That's foolishness; that's great nonsense. All this is nonsense because

Lebyadkin is drunk. I did not tell Liputin, but only explained the

nonsense, because he got it all wrong. Liputin has a great deal of

fantasy, he built up a mountain out of nonsense. I trusted Liputin

yesterday."

"And me to-day?" I said, laughing.

"But you see, you knew all about it already this morning; Liputin is

weak or impatient, or malicious or... he's envious."

The last word struck me.

"You've mentioned so many adjectives, however, that it would be strange

if one didn't describe him."

"Or all at once."

"Yes, and that's what Liputin really is--he's a chaos. He was lying this

morning when he said you were writing something, wasn't he?

"Why should he?" he said, scowling again and staring at the floor.

I apologised, and began assuring him that I was not inquisitive. He

flushed.

"He told the truth; I am writing. Only that's no matter."

We were silent for a minute. He suddenly smiled with the childlike smile

I had noticed that morning.

"He invented that about heads himself out of a book, and told me first

himself, and understands badly. But I only seek the causes why men dare

not kill themselves; that's all. And it's all no matter."

"How do you mean they don't dare? Are there so few suicides?"

"Very few."

"Do you really think so?"

He made no answer, got up, and began walking to and fro lost in thought.

"What is it restrains people from suicide, do you think?" I asked.

He looked at me absent-mindedly, as though trying to remember what we

were talking about.

"I... I don't know much yet.... Two prejudices restrain them, two

things; only two, one very little, the other very big."

"What is the little thing?"

"Pain."

"Pain? Can that be of importance at such a moment?"

"Of the greatest. There are two sorts: those who kill themselves either

from great sorrow or from spite, or being mad, or no matter what...

they do it suddenly. They think little about the pain, but kill

themselves suddenly. But some do it from reason--they think a great

deal."

"Why, are there people who do it from reason?"

"Very many. If it were not for superstition there would be more, very

many, all."

"What, all?"

He did not answer.

"But aren't there means of dying without pain?"

"Imagine"--he stopped before me--"imagine a stone as big as a great

house; it hangs and you are under it; if it falls on you, on your head,

will it hurt you?"

"A stone as big as a house? Of course it would be fearful."

"I speak not of the fear. Will it hurt?"

"A stone as big as a mountain, weighing millions of tons? Of course it

wouldn't hurt."

"But really stand there and while it hangs you will fear very much that

it will hurt. The most learned man, the greatest doctor, all, all will

be very much frightened. Every one will know that it won't hurt, and

every one will be afraid that it will hurt."

"Well, and the second cause, the big one?"

"The other world!"

"You mean punishment?"

"That's no matter. The other world; only the other world."

"Are there no atheists, such as don't believe in the other world at

all?"

Again he did not answer.

"You judge from yourself, perhaps."

"Every one cannot judge except from himself," he said, reddening. "There

will be full freedom when it will be just the same to live or not to

live. That's the goal for all."

"The goal? But perhaps no one will care to live then?"

"No one," he pronounced with decision.

"Man fears death because he loves life. That's how I understand it," I

observed, "and that's determined by nature."

"That's abject; and that's where the deception comes in." His eyes

flashed. "Life is pain, life is terror, and man is unhappy. Now all is

pain and terror. Now man loves life, because he loves pain and terror,

and so they have done according. Life is given now for pain and terror,

and that's the deception. Now man is not yet what he will be. There will

be a new man, happy and proud. For whom it will be the same to live or

not to live, he will be the new man. He who will conquer pain and terror

will himself be a god. And this God will not be."

"Then this God does exist according to you?"

"He does not exist, but He is. In the stone there is no pain, but in the

fear of the stone is the pain. God is the pain of the fear of death. He

who will conquer pain and terror will become himself a god. Then there

will be a new life, a new man; everything will be new... then they will

divide history into two parts: from the gorilla to the annihilation of

God, and from the annihilation of God to..."

"To the gorilla?"

"... To the transformation of the earth, and of man physically. Man

will be God, and will be transformed physically, and the world will

be transformed and things will be transformed and thoughts and all

feelings. What do you think: will man be changed physically then?"

"If it will be just the same living or not living, all will kill

themselves, and perhaps that's what the change will be?"

"That's no matter. They will kill deception. Every one who wants the

supreme freedom must dare to kill himself. He who dares to kill himself

has found out the secret of the deception. There is no freedom beyond;

that is all, and there is nothing beyond. He who dares kill himself is

God. Now every one can do so that there shall be no God and shall be

nothing. But no one has once done it yet."

"There have been millions of suicides."

"But always not for that; always with terror and not for that object.

Not to kill fear. He who kills himself only to kill fear will become a

god at once."

"He won't have time, perhaps," I observed.

"That's no matter," he answered softly, with calm pride, almost disdain.

"I'm sorry that you seem to be laughing," he added half a minute later.

"It seems strange to me that you were so irritable this morning and are

now so calm, though you speak with warmth."

"This morning? It was funny this morning," he answered with a smile. "I

don't like scolding, and I never laugh," he added mournfully.

"Yes, you don't spend your nights very cheerfully over your tea."

I got up and took my cap.

"You think not?" he smiled with some surprise. "Why? No, I... I don't

know." He was suddenly confused. "I know not how it is with the others,

and I feel that I cannot do as others. Everybody thinks and then at once

thinks of something else. I can't think of something else. I think all

my life of one thing. God has tormented me all my life," he ended up

suddenly with astonishing expansiveness.

"And tell me, if I may ask, why is it you speak Russian not quite

correctly? Surely you haven't forgotten it after five years abroad?"

"Don't I speak correctly? I don't know. No, it's not because of abroad.

I have talked like that all my life... it's no matter to me."

"Another question, a more delicate one. I quite believe you that you're

disinclined to meet people and talk very little. Why have you talked to

me now?"

"To you? This morning you sat so nicely and you... but it's all no

matter... you are like my brother, very much, extremely," he added,

flushing. "He has been dead seven years. He was older, very, very much."

"I suppose he had a great influence on your way of thinking?"

"N-no. He said little; he said nothing. I'll give your note."

He saw me to the gate with a lantern, to lock it after me. "Of course

he's mad," I decided. In the gateway I met with another encounter.

IX

I had only just lifted my leg over the high barrier across the bottom of

the gateway, when suddenly a strong hand clutched at my chest.

"Who's this?" roared a voice, "a friend or an enemy? Own up!"

"He's one of us; one of us!" Liputin's voice squealed near by. "It's Mr.

G----v, a young man of classical education, in touch with the highest

society."

"I love him if he's in society, clas-si... that means he's high-ly

ed-u-cated. The retired Captain Ignat Lebyadkin, at the service of the

world and his friends... if they're true ones, if they're true ones, the

scoundrels."

Captain Lebyadkin, a stout, fleshy man over six feet in height, with

curly hair and a red face, was so extremely drunk that he could scarcely

stand up before me, and articulated with difficulty. I had seen him

before, however, in the distance.

"And this one!" he roared again, noticing Kirillov, who was still

standing with the lantern; he raised his fist, but let it fall again at

once.

"I forgive you for your learning! Ignat Lebyadkin--high-ly

ed-u-cated....

'A bomb of love with stinging smart

Exploded in Ignaty's heart.

In anguish dire I weep again

The arm that at Sevastopol

I lost in bitter pain!'

Not that I ever was at Sevastopol, or ever lost my arm, but you know

what rhyme is." He pushed up to me with his ugly, tipsy face.

"He is in a hurry, he is going home!" Liputin tried to persuade him.

"He'll tell Lizaveta Nikolaevna to-morrow."

"Lizaveta!" he yelled again. "Stay, don't go!

A variation:

'Among the Amazons a star,

Upon her steed she flashes by,

And smiles upon me from afar,

The child of aris-to-cra-cy!

To a Starry Amazon.'

You know that's a hymn. It's a hymn, if you're not an ass! The duffers,

they don't understand! Stay!"

He caught hold of my coat, though I pulled myself away with all my

might.

"Tell her I'm a knight and the soul of honour, and as for that Dasha...

I'd pick her up and chuck her out.... She's only a serf, she daren't..."

At this point he fell down, for I pulled myself violently out of his

hands and ran into the street. Liputin clung on to me.

"Alexey Nilitch will pick him up. Do you know what I've just found out

from him?" he babbled in desperate haste. "Did you hear his verses? He's

sealed those verses to the 'Starry Amazon' in an envelope and is going

to send them to-morrow to Lizaveta Nikolaevna, signed with his name in

full. What a fellow!"

"I bet you suggested it to him yourself."

"You'll lose your bet," laughed Liputin. "He's in love, in love like a

cat, and do you know it began with hatred. He hated Lizaveta Nikolaevna

at first so much, for riding on horseback that he almost swore aloud at

her in the street. Yes, he did abuse her! Only the day before yesterday

he swore at her when she rode by--luckily she didn't hear. And,

suddenly, to-day--poetry! Do you know he means to risk a proposal?

Seriously! Seriously!"

"I wonder at you, Liputin; whenever there's anything nasty going on

you're always on the spot taking a leading part in it," I said angrily.

"You're going rather far, Mr. G----v. Isn't your poor little

heart quaking, perhaps, in terror of a rival?"

"Wha-at!" I cried, standing still.

"Well, now to punish you I won't say anything more, and wouldn't you

like to know though? Take this alone, that that lout is not a simple

captain now but a landowner of our province, and rather an important

one, too, for Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch sold him all his estate the other

day, formerly of two hundred serfs; and as God's above, I'm not lying.

I've only just heard it, but it was from a most reliable source. And now

you can ferret it out for yourself; I'll say nothing more; good-bye."

X

Stepan Trofimovitch was awaiting me with hysterical impatience. It

was an hour since he had returned. I found him in a state resembling

intoxication; for the first five minutes at least I thought he was

drunk. Alas, the visit to the Drozdovs had been the finishing-stroke.

"_Mon ami!_ I have completely lost the thread... Lise... I love and

respect that angel as before; just as before; but it seems to me they

both asked me simply to find out something from me, that is more simply

to get something out of me, and then to get rid of me.... That's how it

is."

"You ought to be ashamed!" I couldn't help exclaiming.

"My friend, now I am utterly alone. _Enfin, c'est ridicule._ Would you

believe it, the place is positively packed with mysteries there too. They

simply flew at me about those ears and noses, and some mysteries in

Petersburg too. You know they hadn't heard till they came about the tricks

Nicolas played here four years ago. 'You were here, you saw it, is it true that

he is mad?' Where they got the idea I can't make out. Why is it that

Praskovya is so anxious Nicolas should be mad? The woman will have it so,

she will. _Ce Maurice,_ or what's his name, Mavriky Nikolaevitch, _brave

homme tout de même..._ but can it be for his sake, and after she wrote

herself from Paris to _cette pauvre amie?... Enfin,_ this Praskovya, as _cette

chère amie_ calls her, is a type. She's Gogol's Madame Box, of immortal

memory, only she's a spiteful Madame Box, a malignant Box, and in an

immensely exaggerated form."

"That's making her out a regular packing-case if it's an exaggerated

form."

"Well, perhaps it's the opposite; it's all the same, only don't

interrupt me, for I'm all in a whirl. They are all at loggerheads,

except Lise, she keeps on with her 'Auntie, auntie!' but Lise's sly, and

there's something behind it too. Secrets. She has quarrelled with the

old lady. _Cette pauvre_ auntie tyrannises over every one it's true, and

then there's the governor's wife, and the rudeness of local society, and

Karmazinov's 'rudeness'; and then this idea of madness, _ce Lipoutine,

ce que je ne comprends pas..._ and... and they say she's been putting

vinegar on her head, and here are we with our complaints and

letters.... Oh, how I have tormented her and at such a time! _Je suis un

ingrat!_ Only imagine, I come back and find a letter from her; read it,

read it! Oh, how ungrateful it was of me!"

He gave me a letter he had just received from Varvara Petrovna. She

seemed to have repented of her "stay at home." The letter was amiable

but decided in tone, and brief. She invited Stepan Trofimovitch to come

to her the day after to-morrow, which was Sunday, at twelve o'clock, and

advised him to bring one of his friends with him. (My name was mentioned

in parenthesis). She promised on her side to invite Shatov, as the

brother of Darya Pavlovna. "You can obtain a final answer from her: will

that be enough for you? Is this the formality you were so anxious for?"

"Observe that irritable phrase about formality. Poor thing, poor thing,

the friend of my whole life! I confess the sudden determination of my

whole future almost crushed me.... I confess I still had hopes, but now

_tout est dit._ I know now that all is over. _C'est terrible!_ Oh, that

that Sunday would never come and everything would go on in the old way.

You would have gone on coming and I'd have gone on here...."

"You've been upset by all those nasty things Liputin said, those

slanders."

"My dear, you have touched on another sore spot with your friendly

finger. Such friendly fingers are generally merciless and sometimes

unreasonable; _pardon,_ you may not believe it, but I'd almost forgotten

all that, all that nastiness, not that I forgot it, indeed, but in

my foolishness I tried all the while I was with Lise to be happy and

persuaded myself I was happy. But now... Oh, now I'm thinking of

that generous, humane woman, so long-suffering with my contemptible

failings--not that she's been altogether long-suffering, but what have

I been with my horrid, worthless character! I'm a capricious child, with

all the egoism of a child and none of the innocence. For the last twenty

years she's been looking after me like a nurse, _cette pauvre_ auntie, as

Lise so charmingly calls her.... And now, after twenty years, the child

clamours to be married, sending letter after letter, while her head's

in a vinegar-compress and... now he's got it--on Sunday I shall be a

married man, that's no joke.... And why did I keep insisting myself,

what did I write those letters for? Oh, I forgot. Lise idolizes Darya

Pavlovna, she says so anyway; she says of her '_c'est un ange,_ only

rather a reserved one.' They both advised me, even Praskovya. ...

Praskovya didn't advise me though. Oh, what venom lies concealed in

that 'Box'! And Lise didn't exactly advise me: 'What do you want to get

married for,' she said, 'your intellectual pleasures ought to be enough

for you.' She laughed. I forgive her for laughing, for there's an ache

in her own heart. You can't get on without a woman though, they said to

me. The infirmities of age are coming upon you, and she will tuck you

up, or whatever it is.... _Ma foi,_ I've been thinking myself all this

time I've been sitting with you that Providence was sending her to me

in the decline of my stormy years and that she would tuck me up, or

whatever they call it... _enfin,_ she'll be handy for the housekeeping.

See what a litter there is, look how everything's lying about. I said it

must be cleared up this morning, and look at the book on the floor! _La

pauvre amie_ was always angry at the untidiness here. ... Ah, now I shall

no longer hear her voice! _Vingt ans!_ And it seems they've had anonymous

letters. Only fancy, it's said that Nicolas has sold Lebyadkin his

property. _C'est un monstre; et enfin_ what is Lebyadkin? Lise listens,

and listens, ooh, how she listens! I forgave her laughing. I saw her

face as she listened, and _ce Maurice..._I shouldn't care to be in his

shoes now, _brave homme tout de même,_ but rather shy; but never mind

him...."

He paused. He was tired and upset, and sat with drooping head, staring

at the floor with his tired eyes. I took advantage of the interval to

tell him of my visit to Filipov's house, and curtly and dryly expressed

my opinion that Lebyadkin's sister (whom I had never seen) really

might have been somehow victimised by Nicolas at some time during that

mysterious period of his life, as Liputin had called it, and that it

was very possible that Lebyadkin received sums of money from Nicolas for

some reason, but that was all. As for the scandal about Darya Pavlovna,

that was all nonsense, all that brute Liputin's misrepresentations, that

this was anyway what Alexey Nilitch warmly maintained, and we had

no grounds for disbelieving him. Stepan Trofimovitch listened to my

assurances with an absent air, as though they did not concern him. I

mentioned by the way my conversation with Kirillov, and added that he

might be mad.

"He's not mad, but one of those shallow-minded people," he mumbled

listlessly. "_Ces gens-là supposent la nature et la societé humaine

autres que Dieu ne les a faites et qu'elles ne sont réellement._ People

try to make up to them, but Stepan Verhovensky does not, anyway. I saw

them that time in Petersburg _avec cette chère amie_ (oh, how I used to

wound her then), and I wasn't afraid of their abuse or even of their

praise. I'm not afraid now either. _Mais parlons d'autre chose...._

I believe I have done dreadful things. Only fancy, I sent a letter

yesterday to Darya Pavlovna and... how I curse myself for it!"

"What did you write about?"

"Oh, my friend, believe me, it was all done in a noble spirit. I let

her know that I had written to Nicolas five days before, also in a noble

spirit."

"I understand now!" I cried with heat. "And what right had you to couple

their names like that?"

"But, _mon cher,_ don't crush me completely, don't shout at me; as it is

I'm utterly squashed like... a black-beetle. And, after all, I thought

it was all so honourable. Suppose that something really happened...

_en Suisse_...or was beginning. I was bound to question their hearts

beforehand that I..._enfin,_ that I might not constrain their hearts,

and be a stumbling-block in their paths. I acted simply from honourable

feeling."

"Oh, heavens! What a stupid thing you've done!" I cried involuntarily.

"Yes, yes," he assented with positive eagerness. "You have never said

anything more just, _c'était bête, mais que faire? Tout est dit._ I shall

marry her just the same even if it be to cover 'another's sins.' So

there was no object in writing, was there?"

"You're at that idea again!"

"Oh, you won't frighten me with your shouts now. You see a different

Stepan Verhovensky before you now. The man I was is buried. _Enfin,

tout est dit._ And why do you cry out? Simply because you're not getting

married, and you won't have to wear a certain decoration on your head.

Does that shock you again? My poor friend, you don't know woman, while

I have done nothing but study her. 'If you want to conquer the world,

conquer yourself'--the one good thing that another romantic like you, my

bride's brother, Shatov, has succeeded in saying. I would gladly borrow

from him his phrase. Well, here I am ready to conquer myself, and I'm

getting married. And what am I conquering by way of the whole world?

Oh, my friend, marriage is the moral death of every proud soul, of all

independence. Married life will corrupt me, it will sap my energy, my

courage in the service of the cause. Children will come, probably not my

own either--certainly not my own: a wise man is not afraid to face the

truth. Liputin proposed this morning putting up barricades to keep out

Nicolas; Liputin's a fool. A woman would deceive the all-seeing eye

itself. _Le bon Dieu_ knew what He was in for when He was creating woman,

but I'm sure that she meddled in it herself and forced Him to create her

such as she is... and with such attributes: for who would have incurred

so much trouble for nothing? I know Nastasya may be angry with me for

free-thinking, but..._enfin, tout est dit._"

He wouldn't have been himself if he could have dispensed with the cheap

gibing free-thought which was in vogue in his day. Now, at any rate, he

comforted himself with a gibe, but not for long.

"Oh, if that day after to-morrow, that Sunday, might never come!" he

exclaimed suddenly, this time in utter despair. "Why could not this

one week be without a Sunday--_si le miracle existe_? What would it be to

Providence to blot out one Sunday from the calendar? If only to prove

His power to the atheists _et que tout soit dit!_ Oh, how I loved her!

Twenty years, these twenty years, and she has never understood me!"

"But of whom are you talking? Even I don't understand you!" I asked,

wondering.

"_Vingt ans!_ And she has not once understood me; oh, it's cruel! And can

she really believe that I am marrying from fear, from poverty? Oh, the

shame of it! Oh, Auntie, Auntie, I do it for you!... Oh, let her know,

that Auntie, that she is the one woman I have adored for twenty years!

She must learn this, it must be so, if not they will need force to drag

me under _ce qu'on appelle le_ wedding-crown."

It was the first time I had heard this confession, and so vigorously

uttered. I won't conceal the fact that I was terribly tempted to laugh.

I was wrong.

"He is the only one left me now, the only one, my one hope!" he cried

suddenly, clasping his hands as though struck by a new idea. "Only he,

my poor boy, can save me now, and, oh, why doesn't he come! Oh, my son,

oh, my Petrusha.... And though I do not deserve the name of father,

but rather that of tiger, yet..._Laissez-moi, mon ami,_ I'll lie down a

little, to collect my ideas. I am so tired, so tired. And I think it's

time you were in bed. _Voyez vous,_ it's twelve o'clock...."

CHAPTER IV. THE CRIPPLE

I

SHATOV WAS NOT PERVERSE but acted on my note, and called at midday on

Lizaveta Nikolaevna. We went in almost together; I was also going to

make my first call. They were all, that is Liza, her mother, and Mavriky

Nikolaevitch, sitting in the big drawing-room, arguing. The mother was

asking Liza to play some waltz on the piano, and as soon as Liza began

to play the piece asked for, declared it was not the right one.

Mavriky Nikolaevitch in the simplicity of his heart took Liza's part,

maintaining that it was the right waltz. The elder lady was so angry

that she began to cry. She was ill and walked with difficulty. Her

legs were swollen, and for the last few days she had been continually

fractious, quarrelling with every one, though she always stood rather

in awe of Liza. They were pleased to see us. Liza flushed with pleasure,

and saying _"merci"_ to me, on Shatov's account of course, went to meet

him, looking at him with interest.

Shatov stopped awkwardly in the doorway. Thanking him for coming she led

him up to her mother.

"This is Mr. Shatov, of whom I have told you, and this is Mr. G----v, a

great friend of mine and of Stepan Trofimovitch's. Mavriky Nikolaevitch

made his acquaintance yesterday, too."

"And which is the professor?"

"There's no professor at all, maman."

"But there is. You said yourself that there'd be a professor. It's this

one, probably." She disdainfully indicated Shatov.

"I didn't tell you that there'd be a professor. Mr. G----v is

in the service, and Mr. Shatov is a former student."

"A student or professor, they all come from the university just the

same. You only want to argue. But the Swiss one had moustaches and a

beard."

"It's the son of Stepan Trofimovitch that maman always calls the

professor," said Liza, and she took Shatov away to the sofa at the other

end of the drawing-room.

"When her legs swell, she's always like this, you understand she's

ill," she whispered to Shatov, still with the same marked curiosity,

scrutinising him, especially his shock of hair.

"Are you an officer?" the old lady inquired of me. Liza had mercilessly

abandoned me to her.

"N-no.--I'm in the service...."

"Mr. G----v is a great friend of Stepan Trofimovitch's," Liza chimed in

immediately.

"Are you in Stepan Trofimovitch's service? Yes, and he's a professor,

too, isn't he?"

"Ah, maman, you must dream at night of professors," cried Liza with

annoyance.

"I see too many when I'm awake. But you always will contradict your

mother. Were you here four years ago when Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was in

the neighbourhood?"

I answered that I was.

"And there was some Englishman with you?"

"No, there was not."

Liza laughed.

"Well, you see there was no Englishman, so it must have been idle

gossip. And Varvara Petrovna and Stepan Trofimovitch both tell lies. And

they all tell lies."

"Auntie and Stepan Trofimovitch yesterday thought there was a

resemblance between Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch and Prince Harry in

Shakespeare's _Henry IV_, and in answer to that maman says that there was

no Englishman here," Liza explained to us.

"If Harry wasn't here, there was no Englishman. It was no one else but

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch at his tricks."

"I assure you that maman's doing it on purpose," Liza thought necessary

to explain to Shatov. "She's really heard of Shakespeare. I read her the

first act of _Othello_ myself. But she's in great pain now. Maman, listen,

it's striking twelve, it's time you took your medicine."

"The doctor's come," a maid-servant announced at the door.

The old lady got up and began calling her dog: "Zemirka, Zemirka, you

come with me at least."

Zemirka, a horrid little old dog, instead of obeying, crept under the

sofa where Liza was sitting.

"Don't you want to? Then I don't want you. Good-bye, my good sir, I

don't know your name or your father's," she said, addressing me.

"Anton Lavrentyevitch..."

"Well, it doesn't matter, with me it goes in at one ear and out of the

other. Don't you come with me, Mavriky Nikolaevitch, it was Zemirka I

called. Thank God I can still walk without help and to-morrow I shall go

for a drive."

She walked angrily out of the drawing-room.

"Anton Lavrentyevitch, will you talk meanwhile to Mavriky Nikolaevitch;

I assure you you'll both be gainers by getting to know one another

better," said Liza, and she gave a friendly smile to Mavriky

Nikolaevitch, who beamed all over as she looked at him. There was no

help for it, I remained to talk to Mavriky Nikolaevitch.

II

Lizaveta Nikolaevna's business with Shatov turned out, to my surprise,

to be really only concerned with literature. I had imagined, I don't

know why, that she had asked him to come with some other object. We,

Mavriky Nikolaevitch and I that is, seeing that they were talking aloud

and not trying to hide anything from us, began to listen, and at last

they asked our advice. It turned out that Lizaveta Nikolaevna was

thinking of bringing out a book which she thought would be of use,

but being quite inexperienced she needed someone to help her. The

earnestness with which she began to explain her plan to Shatov quite

surprised me.

"She must be one of the new people," I thought. "She has not been to

Switzerland for nothing."

Shatov listened with attention, his eyes fixed on the ground, showing

not the slightest surprise that a giddy young lady in society should

take up work that seemed so out of keeping with her.

Her literary scheme was as follows. Numbers of papers and journals are

published in the capitals and the provinces of Russia, and every day a

number of events are reported in them. The year passes, the newspapers

are everywhere folded up and put away in cupboards, or are torn up

and become litter, or are used for making parcels or wrapping things.

Numbers of these facts make an impression and are remembered by the

public, but in the course of years they are forgotten. Many people would

like to look them up, but it is a labour for them to embark upon this

sea of paper, often knowing nothing of the day or place or even year in

which the incident occurred. Yet if all the facts for a whole year were

brought together into one book, on a definite plan, and with a definite

object, under headings with references, arranged according to months and

days, such a compilation might reflect the characteristics of Russian

life for the whole year, even though the facts published are only a

small fraction of the events that take place.

"Instead of a number of newspapers there would be a few fat books,

that's all," observed Shatov.

But Lizaveta Nikolaevna clung to her idea, in spite of the difficulty

of carrying it out and her inability to describe it. "It ought to be

one book, and not even a very thick one," she maintained. But even if it

were thick it would be clear, for the great point would be the plan and

the character of the presentation of facts. Of course not all would

be collected and reprinted. The decrees and acts of government,

local regulations, laws--all such facts, however important, might be

altogether omitted from the proposed publication. They could leave out a

great deal and confine themselves to a selection of events more or

less characteristic of the moral life of the people, of the personal

character of the Russian people at the present moment. Of course

everything might be put in: strange incidents, fires, public

subscriptions, anything good or bad, every speech or word, perhaps even

floodings of the rivers, perhaps even some government decrees, but

only such things to be selected as are characteristic of the period;

everything would be put in with a certain view, a special significance

and intention, with an idea which would illuminate the facts looked

at in the aggregate, as a whole. And finally the book ought to be

interesting even for light reading, apart from its value as a work of

reference. It would be, so to say, a presentation of the spiritual,

moral, inner life of Russia for a whole year.

"We want every one to buy it, we want it to be a book that will be found

on every table," Liza declared. "I understand that all lies in the plan,

and that's why I apply to you," she concluded. She grew very warm over

it, and although her explanation was obscure and incomplete, Shatov

began to understand.

"So it would amount to something with a political tendency, a selection

of facts with a special tendency," he muttered, still not raising his

head.

"Not at all, we must not select with a particular bias, and we ought

not to have any political tendency in it. Nothing but impartiality--that

will be the only tendency."

"But a tendency would be no harm," said Shatov, with a slight movement,

"and one can hardly avoid it if there is any selection at all. The very

selection of facts will suggest how they are to be understood. Your idea

is not a bad one."

"Then such a book is possible?" cried Liza delightedly.

"We must look into it and consider. It's an immense undertaking. One

can't work it out on the spur of the moment. We need experience. And

when we do publish the book I doubt whether we shall find out how to

do it. Possibly after many trials; but the thought is alluring. It's a

useful idea."

He raised his eyes at last, and they were positively sparkling with

pleasure, he was so interested.

"Was it your own idea?" he asked Liza, in a friendly and, as it were,

bashful way.

"The idea's no trouble, you know, it's the plan is the trouble," Liza

smiled. "I understand very little. I am not very clever, and I only

pursue what is clear to me, myself...."

"Pursue?"

"Perhaps that's not the right word?" Liza inquired quickly.

"The word is all right; I meant nothing."

"I thought while I was abroad that even I might be of some use. I have

money of my own lying idle. Why shouldn't I--even I--work for the common

cause? Besides, the idea somehow occurred to me all at once of itself.

I didn't invent it at all, and was delighted with it. But I saw at

once that I couldn't get on without someone to help, because I am not

competent to do anything of myself. My helper, of course, would be the

co-editor of the book. We would go halves. You would give the plan and

the work. Mine would be the original idea and the means for publishing

it. Would the book pay its expenses, do you think?"

"If we hit on a good plan the book will go."

"I warn you that I am not doing it for profit; but I am very anxious

that the book should circulate and should be very proud of making a

profit."

"Well, but how do I come in?"

"Why, I invite you to be my fellow-worker, to go halves. You will think

out the plan."

"How do you know that I am capable of thinking out the plan?"

"People have talked about you to me, and here I've heard

... I know that you are very clever and... are working for the cause ...

and think a great deal. Pyotr Stepanovitch Verhovensky spoke about you

in Switzerland," she added hurriedly. "He's a very clever man, isn't

he?"

Shatov stole a fleeting, momentary glance at her, but dropped his eyes

again.

"Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch told me a great deal about you, too."

Shatov suddenly turned red.

"But here are the newspapers." Liza hurriedly picked up from a chair

a bundle of newspapers that lay tied up ready. "I've tried to mark

the facts here for selection, to sort them, and I have put the papers

together... you will see."

Shatov took the bundle.

"Take them home and look at them. Where do you live?"

"In Bogoyavlensky Street, Filipov's house."

"I know. I think it's there, too, I've been told, a captain lives,

beside you, Mr. Lebyadkin," said Liza in the same hurried manner.

Shatov sat for a full minute with the bundle in his outstretched hand,

making no answer and staring at the floor.

"You'd better find someone else for these jobs. I shouldn't suit you at

all," he brought out at last, dropping his voice in an awfully strange

way, almost to a whisper.

Liza flushed crimson.

"What jobs are you speaking of? Mavriky Nikolaevitch," she cried,

"please bring that letter here."

I too followed Mavriky Nikolaevitch to the table.

"Look at this," she turned suddenly to me, unfolding the letter in great

excitement. "Have you ever seen anything like it. Please read it aloud.

I want Mr. Shatov to hear it too."

With no little astonishment I read aloud the following missive:

"To the Perfection, Miss Tushin.

"Gracious Lady

"Lizaveta Nikolaevna!

"Oh, she's a sweet queen,

Lizaveta Tushin!

When on side-saddle she gallops by,

And in the breeze her fair tresses fly!

Or when with her mother in church she bows low

And on devout faces a red flush doth flow!

Then for the joys of lawful wedlock I aspire,

And follow her and her mother with tears of desire.

"Composed by an unlearned man in the midst of a discussion.

"Gracious Lady!

"I pity myself above all men that I did not lose my arm at Sevastopol,

not having been there at all, but served all the campaign delivering

paltry provisions, which I look on as a degradation. You are a goddess

of antiquity, and I am nothing, but have had a glimpse of infinity.

Look on it as a poem and no more, for, after all, poetry is nonsense and

justifies what would be considered impudence in prose. Can the sun be

angry with the infusoria if the latter composes verses to her from the

drop of water, where there is a multitude of them if you look through

the microscope? Even the club for promoting humanity to the larger

animals in tip-top society in Petersburg, which rightly feels compassion

for dogs and horses, despises the brief infusoria making no reference

to it whatever, because it is not big enough. I'm not big enough either.

The idea of marriage might seem droll, but soon I shall have property

worth two hundred souls through a misanthropist whom you ought to

despise. I can tell a lot and I can undertake to produce documents

that would mean Siberia. Don't despise my proposal. A letter from an

infusoria is of course in verse.

"Captain Lebyadkin your most humble friend.

"And he has time no end."

"That was written by a man in a drunken condition, a worthless fellow,"

I cried indignantly. "I know him."

"That letter I received yesterday," Liza began to explain, flushing

and speaking hurriedly. "I saw myself, at once, that it came from some

foolish creature, and I haven't yet shown it to maman, for fear of

upsetting her more. But if he is going to keep on like that, I don't

know how to act. Mavriky Nikolaevitch wants to go out and forbid him to

do it. As I have looked upon you as a colleague," she turned to Shatov,

"and as you live there, I wanted to question you so as to judge what

more is to be expected of him."

"He's a drunkard and a worthless fellow," Shatov muttered with apparent

reluctance.

"Is he always so stupid?"

"No, he's not stupid at all when he's not drunk."

"I used to know a general who wrote verses exactly like that," I

observed, laughing.

"One can see from the letter that he is clever enough for his own

purposes," Mavriky Nikolaevitch, who had till then been silent, put in

unexpectedly.

"He lives with some sister?" Liza queried.

"Yes, with his sister."

"They say he tyrannises over her, is that true?"

Shatov looked at Liza again, scowled, and muttering, "What business is

it of mine?" moved towards the door.

"Ah, stay!" cried Liza, in a flutter. "Where are you going? We have so

much still to talk over...."

"What is there to talk over? I'll let you know to-morrow."

"Why, the most important thing of all--the printing-press! Do believe me

that I am not in jest, that I really want to work in good earnest!" Liza

assured him in growing agitation. "If we decide to publish it, where is

it to be printed? You know it's a most important question, for we shan't

go to Moscow for it, and the printing-press here is out of the

question for such a publication. I made up my mind long ago to set up

a printing-press of my own, in your name perhaps--and I know maman will

allow it so long as it is in your name...."

"How do you know that I could be a printer?" Shatov asked sullenly.

"Why, Pyotr Stepanovitch told me of you in Switzerland, and referred

me to you as one who knows the business and able to set up a

printing-press. He even meant to give me a note to you from himself, but

I forgot it."

Shatov's face changed, as I recollect now. He stood for a few seconds

longer, then went out of the room.

Liza was angry.

"Does he always go out like that?" she asked, turning to me.

I was just shrugging my shoulders when Shatov suddenly came back, went

straight up to the table and put down the roll of papers he had taken.

"I'm not going to be your helper, I haven't the time...."

"Why? Why? I think you are angry!" Liza asked him in a grieved and

imploring voice.

The sound of her voice seemed to strike him; for some moments he looked

at her intently, as though trying to penetrate to her very soul.

"No matter," he muttered, softly, "I don't want to...."

And he went away altogether.

Liza was completely overwhelmed, quite disproportionately in fact, so it

seemed to me.

"Wonderfully queer man," Mavriky Nikolaevitch observed aloud.

III

He certainly was queer, but in all this there was a very great deal not

clear to me. There was something underlying it all. I simply did not

believe in this publication; then that stupid letter, in which there

was an offer, only too barefaced, to give information and produce

"documents," though they were all silent about that, and talked of

something quite different; finally that printing-press and Shatov's

sudden exit, just because they spoke of a printing-press. All this led

me to imagine that something had happened before I came in of which I

knew nothing; and, consequently, that it was no business of mine and

that I was in the way. And, indeed, it was time to take leave, I had

stayed long enough for the first call. I went up to say good-bye to

Lizaveta Nikolaevna.

She seemed to have forgotten that I was in the room, and was still

standing in the same place by the table with her head bowed, plunged in

thought, gazing fixedly at one spot on the carpet.

"Ah, you, too, are going, good-bye," she murmured in an ordinary

friendly tone. "Give my greetings to Stepan Trofimovitch, and persuade

him to come and see me as soon as he can. Mavriky Nikolaevitch, Anton

Lavrentyevitch is going. Excuse maman's not being able to come out and

say good-bye to you...."

I went out and had reached the bottom of the stairs when a footman

suddenly overtook me at the street door.

"My lady begs you to come back...."

"The mistress, or Lizaveta Nikolaevna?"

"The young lady."

I found Liza not in the big room where we had been sitting, but in the

reception-room next to it. The door between it and the drawing-room,

where Mavriky Nikolaevitch was left alone, was closed.

Liza smiled to me but was pale. She was standing in the middle of the

room in evident indecision, visibly struggling with herself; but she

suddenly took me by the hand, and led me quickly to the window.

"I want to see _her_ at once," she whispered, bending upon me a

burning, passionate, impatient glance, which would not admit a hint of

opposition. "I must see her with my own eyes, and I beg you to help

me."

She was in a perfect frenzy, and--in despair.

"Who is it you want to see, Lizaveta Nikolaevna?" I inquired in dismay.

"That Lebyadkin's sister, that lame girl.... Is it true that she's

lame?"

I was astounded.

"I have never seen her, but I've heard that she's lame. I heard it

yesterday," I said with hurried readiness, and also in a whisper.

"I must see her, absolutely. Could you arrange it to-day?"

I felt dreadfully sorry for her.

"That's utterly impossible, and, besides, I should not know at all how

to set about it," I began persuading her. "I'll go to Shatov...."

"If you don't arrange it by to-morrow I'll go to her by myself, alone,

for Mavriky Nikolaevitch has refused. I rest all my hopes on you and

I've no one else; I spoke stupidly to Shatov.... I'm sure that you are

perfectly honest and perhaps ready to do anything for me, only arrange

it."

I felt a passionate desire to help her in every way.

"This is what I'll do," I said, after a moment's thought. "I'll go

myself to-day and will see her for sure, for sure. I will manage so

as to see her. I give you my word of honour. Only let me confide in

Shatov."

"Tell him that I do desire it, and that I can't wait any longer, but

that I wasn't deceiving him just now. He went away perhaps because

he's very honest and he didn't like my seeming to deceive him. I

wasn't deceiving him, I really do want to edit books and found a

printing-press...."

"He is honest, very honest," I assented warmly.

"If it's not arranged by to-morrow, though, I shall go myself whatever

happens, and even if every one were to know."

"I can't be with you before three o'clock to-morrow," I observed, after

a moment's deliberation.

"At three o'clock then. Then it was true what I imagined yesterday at

Stepan Trofimovitch's, that you--are rather devoted to me?" she said

with a smile, hurriedly pressing my hand to say good-bye, and hurrying

back to the forsaken Mavriky Nikolaevitch.

I went out weighed down by my promise, and unable to understand what

had happened. I had seen a woman in real despair, not hesitating to

compromise herself by confiding in a man she hardly knew. Her womanly

smile at a moment so terrible for her and her hint that she had noticed

my feelings the day before sent a pang to my heart; but I felt sorry

for her, very sorry--that was all! Her secrets became at once something

sacred for me, and if anyone had begun to reveal them to me now, I think

I should have covered my ears, and should have refused to hear anything

more. I only had a presentiment of something... yet I was utterly at

a loss to see how I could do anything. What's more I did not even yet

understand exactly what I had to arrange; an interview, but what sort

of an interview? And how could I bring them together? My only hope was

Shatov, though I could be sure that he wouldn't help me in any way. But

all the same, I hurried to him.

IV

I did not find him at home till past seven o'clock that evening. To my

surprise he had visitors with him--Alexey Nilitch, and another gentleman

I hardly knew, one Shigalov, the brother of Virginsky's wife.

This gentleman must, I think, have been staying about two months in

the town; I don't know where he came from. I had only heard that he

had written some sort of article in a progressive Petersburg magazine.

Virginsky had introduced me casually to him in the street. I had

never in my life seen in a man's face so much despondency, gloom, and

moroseness. He looked as though he were expecting the destruction of the

world, and not at some indefinite time in accordance with prophecies,

which might never be fulfilled, but quite definitely, as though it were

to be the day after to-morrow at twenty-five minutes past ten. We hardly

said a word to one another on that occasion, but had simply shaken hands

like two conspirators. I was most struck by his ears, which were of

unnatural size, long, broad, and thick, sticking out in a peculiar way.

His gestures were slow and awkward.

If Liputin had imagined that a phalanstery might be established in our

province, this gentleman certainly knew the day and the hour when it

would be founded. He made a sinister impression on me. I was the more

surprised at finding him here, as Shatov was not fond of visitors.

I could hear from the stairs that they were talking very loud, all three

at once, and I fancy they were disputing; but as soon as I went in, they

all ceased speaking. They were arguing, standing up, but now they all

suddenly sat down, so that I had to sit down too. There was a stupid

silence that was not broken for fully three minutes. Though Shigalov

knew me, he affected not to know me, probably not from hostile feelings,

but for no particular reason. Alexey Nilitch and I bowed to one another

in silence, and for some reason did not shake hands. Shigalov began at

last looking at me sternly and frowningly, with the most naïve assurance

that I should immediately get up and go away. At last Shatov got up from

his chair and the others jumped up at once. They went out without saying

good-bye. Shigalov only said in the doorway to Shatov, who was seeing

him out:

"Remember that you are bound to give an explanation."

"Hang your explanation, and who the devil am I bound to?" said Shatov.

He showed them out and fastened the door with the latch.

"Snipes!" he said, looking at me, with a sort of wry smile.

His face looked angry, and it seemed strange to me that he spoke first.

When I had been to see him before (which was not often) it had usually

happened that he sat scowling in a corner, answered ill-humouredly

and only completely thawed and began to talk with pleasure after a

considerable time. Even so, when he was saying good-bye he always

scowled, and let one out as though he were getting rid of a personal

enemy.

"I had tea yesterday with that Alexey Nilitch," I observed. "I think

he's mad on atheism."

"Russian atheism has never gone further than making a joke," growled

Shatov, putting up a new candle in place of an end that had burnt out.

"No, this one doesn't seem to me a joker, I think he doesn't know how to

talk, let alone trying to make jokes."

"Men made of paper! It all comes from flunkeyism of thought," Shatov

observed calmly, sitting down on a chair in the corner, and pressing the

palms of both hands on his knees.

"There's hatred in it, too," he went on, after a minute's pause.

"They'd be the first to be terribly unhappy if Russia could be suddenly

reformed, even to suit their own ideas, and became extraordinarily

prosperous and happy. They'd have no one to hate then, no one to curse,

nothing to find fault with. There is nothing in it but an immense animal

hatred for Russia which has eaten into their organism.... And it isn't

a case of tears unseen by the world under cover of a smile! There has

never been a falser word said in Russia than about those unseen tears,"

he cried, almost with fury.

"Goodness only knows what you're saying," I laughed.

"Oh, you're a 'moderate liberal,'" said Shatov, smiling too. "Do you

know," he went on suddenly, "I may have been talking nonsense about the

'flunkeyism of thought.' You will say to me no doubt directly, 'it's you

who are the son of a flunkey, but I'm not a flunkey.'"

"I wasn't dreaming of such a thing.... What are you saying!"

"You need not apologise. I'm not afraid of you. Once I was only the

son of a flunkey, but now I've become a flunkey myself, like you. Our

Russian liberal is a flunkey before everything, and is only looking for

someone whose boots he can clean."

"What boots? What allegory is this?"

"Allegory, indeed! You are laughing, I see.... Stepan Trofimovitch said

truly that I lie under a stone, crushed but not killed, and do nothing

but wriggle. It was a good comparison of his."

"Stepan Trofimovitch declares that you are mad over the Germans," I

laughed. "We've borrowed something from them anyway."

"We took twenty kopecks, but we gave up a hundred roubles of our own."

We were silent a minute.

"He got that sore lying in America."

"Who? What sore?"

"I mean Kirillov. I spent four months with him lying on the floor of a

hut."

"Why, have you been in America?" I asked, surprised. "You never told me

about it."

"What is there to tell? The year before last we spent our last farthing,

three of us, going to America in an emigrant steamer, to test the

life of the American workman on ourselves, and to verify by personal

experiment the state of a man in the hardest social conditions. That was

our object in going there."

"Good Lord!" I laughed. "You'd much better have gone somewhere in our

province at harvest-time if you wanted to 'make a personal experiment'

instead of bolting to America."

"We hired ourselves out as workmen to an exploiter; there were six of

us Russians working for him--students, even landowners coming from their

estates, some officers, too, and all with the same grand object. Well,

so we worked, sweated, wore ourselves out; Kirillov and I were exhausted

at last; fell ill--went away--we couldn't stand it. Our employer cheated

us when he paid us off; instead of thirty dollars, as he had agreed, he

paid me eight and Kirillov fifteen; he beat us, too, more than once. So

then we were left without work, Kirillov and I, and we spent four months

lying on the floor in that little town. He thought of one thing and I

thought of another."

"You don't mean to say your employer beat you? In America? How you must

have sworn at him!"

"Not a bit of it. On the contrary, Kirillov and I made up our minds

from the first that we Russians were like little children beside the

Americans, and that one must be born in America, or at least live for

many years with Americans to be on a level with them. And do you know,

if we were asked a dollar for a thing worth a farthing, we used to pay

it with pleasure, in fact with enthusiasm. We approved of everything:

spiritualism, lynch-law, revolvers, tramps. Once when we were travelling

a fellow slipped his hand into my pocket, took my brush, and began

brushing his hair with it. Kirillov and I only looked at one another,

and made up our minds that that was the right thing and that we liked it

very much...."

"The strange thing is that with us all this is not only in the brain but

is carried out in practice," I observed.

"Men made of paper," Shatov repeated.

"But to cross the ocean in an emigrant steamer, though, to go to an

unknown country, even to make a personal experiment and all that--by

Jove... there really is a large-hearted staunchness about it.... But

how did you get out of it?"

"I wrote to a man in Europe and he sent me a hundred roubles."

As Shatov talked he looked doggedly at the ground as he always did, even

when he was excited. At this point he suddenly raised his head.

"Do you want to know the man's name?"

"Who was it?"

"Nikolay Stavrogin."

He got up suddenly, turned to his limewood writing-table and

began searching for something on it. There was a vague, though

well-authenticated rumour among us that Shatov's wife had at one time

had a liaison with Nikolay Stavrogin, in Paris, and just about two years

ago, that is when Shatov was in America. It is true that this was long

after his wife had left him in Geneva.

"If so, what possesses him now to bring his name forward and to lay

stress on it?" I thought.

"I haven't paid him back yet," he said, turning suddenly to me again,

and looking at me intently he sat down in the same place as before in

the corner, and asked abruptly, in quite a different voice:

"You have come no doubt with some object. What do you want?"

I told him everything immediately, in its exact historical order, and

added that though I had time to think it over coolly after the first

excitement was over, I was more puzzled than ever. I saw that it meant

something very important to Lizaveta Nikolaevna. I was extremely anxious

to help her, but the trouble was that I didn't know how to keep the

promise I had made her, and didn't even quite understand now what I had

promised her. Then I assured him impressively once more that she had not

meant to deceive him, and had had no thought of doing so; that there had

been some misunderstanding, and that she had been very much hurt by the

extraordinary way in which he had gone off that morning.

He listened very attentively.

"Perhaps I was stupid this morning, as I usually am.... Well, if she

didn't understand why I went away like that... so much the better for

her."

He got up, went to the door, opened it, and began listening on the

stairs.

"Do you want to see that person yourself?"

"That's just what I wanted, but how is it to be done?" I cried,

delighted.

"Let's simply go down while she's alone. When he comes in he'll beat

her horribly if he finds out we've been there. I often go in on the sly.

I went for him this morning when he began beating her again."

"What do you mean?"

"I dragged him off her by the hair. He tried to beat me, but I

frightened him, and so it ended. I'm afraid he'll come back drunk, and

won't forget it--he'll give her a bad beating because of it."

We went downstairs at once.

The Lebyadkins' door was shut but not locked, and we were able to go in.

Their lodging consisted of two nasty little rooms, with smoke-begrimed

walls on which the filthy wall-paper literally hung in tatters. It

had been used for some years as an eating-house, until Filipov, the

tavern-keeper, moved to another house. The other rooms below what had

been the eating-house were now shut up, and these two were all the

Lebyadkins had. The furniture consisted of plain benches and deal

tables, except for an old arm-chair that had lost its arms. In the

second room there was the bedstead that belonged to Mlle. Lebyadkin

standing in the corner, covered with a chintz quilt; the captain himself

went to bed anywhere on the floor, often without undressing. Everything

was in disorder, wet and filthy; a huge soaking rag lay in the middle

of the floor in the first room, and a battered old shoe lay beside it

in the wet. It was evident that no one looked after anything here. The

stove was not heated, food was not cooked; they had not even a samovar

as Shatov told me. The captain had come to the town with his sister

utterly destitute, and had, as Liputin said, at first actually gone from

house to house begging. But having unexpectedly received some money, he

had taken to drinking at once, and had become so besotted that he was

incapable of looking after things.

Mlle. Lebyadkin, whom I was so anxious to see, was sitting quietly at

a deal kitchen table on a bench in the corner of the inner room, not

making a sound. When we opened the door she did not call out to us or

even move from her place. Shatov said that the door into the passage

would not lock and it had once stood wide open all night. By the dim

light of a thin candle in an iron candlestick, I made out a woman of

about thirty, perhaps, sickly and emaciated, wearing an old dress of

dark cotton material, with her long neck uncovered, her scanty dark hair

twisted into a knot on the nape of her neck, no larger than the fist of

a two-year-old child. She looked at us rather cheerfully. Besides the

candlestick, she had on the table in front of her a little peasant

looking-glass, an old pack of cards, a tattered book of songs, and a

white roll of German bread from which one or two bites had been taken.

It was noticeable that Mlle. Lebyadkin used powder and rouge, and

painted her lips. She also blackened her eyebrows, which were fine,

long, and black enough without that. Three long wrinkles stood sharply

conspicuous across her high, narrow forehead in spite of the powder on

it. I already knew that she was lame, but on this occasion she did not

attempt to get up or walk. At some time, perhaps in early youth, that

wasted face may have been pretty; but her soft, gentle grey eyes were

remarkable even now. There was something dreamy and sincere in her

gentle, almost joyful, expression. This gentle serene joy, which was

reflected also in her smile, astonished me after all I had heard of the

Cossack whip and her brother's violence. Strange to say, instead of the

oppressive repulsion and almost dread one usually feels in the presence

of these creatures afflicted by God, I felt it almost pleasant to look

at her from the first moment, and my heart was filled afterwards with

pity in which there was no trace of aversion.

"This is how she sits literally for days together, utterly alone,

without moving; she tries her fortune with the cards, or looks in the

looking-glass," said Shatov, pointing her out to me from the doorway.

"He doesn't feed her, you know. The old woman in the lodge brings her

something sometimes out of charity; how can they leave her all alone

like this with a candle!"

To my surprise Shatov spoke aloud, just as though she were not in the

room.

"Good day, Shatushka!" Mlle. Lebyadkin said genially.

"I've brought you a visitor, Marya Timofyevna," said Shatov.

"The visitor is very welcome. I don't know who it is you've brought, I

don't seem to remember him." She scrutinised me intently from behind the

candle, and turned again at once to Shatov (and she took no more notice

of me for the rest of the conversation, as though I had not been near

her).

"Are you tired of walking up and down alone in your garret?" she

laughed, displaying two rows of magnificent teeth.

"I was tired of it, and I wanted to come and see you."

Shatov moved a bench up to the table, sat down on it and made me sit

beside him.

"I'm always glad to have a talk, though you're a funny person,

Shatushka, just like a monk. When did you comb your hair last? Let me

do it for you." And she pulled a little comb out of her pocket. "I don't

believe you've touched it since I combed it last."

"Well, I haven't got a comb," said Shatov, laughing too.

"Really? Then I'll give you mine; only remind me, not this one but

another."

With a most serious expression she set to work to comb his hair. She

even parted it on one side; drew back a little, looked to see whether it

was right and put the comb back in her pocket.

"Do you know what, Shatushka?" She shook her head. "You may be a very

sensible man but you're dull. It's strange for me to look at all of you.

I don't understand how it is people are dull. Sadness is not dullness.

I'm happy."

"And are you happy when your brother's here?"

"You mean Lebyadkin? He's my footman. And I don't care whether he's

here or not. I call to him: 'Lebyadkin, bring the water!' or 'Lebyadkin,

bring my shoes!' and he runs. Sometimes one does wrong and can't help

laughing at him."

"That's just how it is," said Shatov, addressing me aloud without

ceremony. "She treats him just like a footman. I've heard her myself

calling to him, 'Lebyadkin, give me some water!' And she laughed as

she said it. The only difference is that he doesn't fetch the water but

beats her for it; but she isn't a bit afraid of him. She has some sort

of nervous fits, almost every day, and they are destroying her memory

so that afterwards she forgets everything that's just happened, and is

always in a muddle over time. You imagine she remembers how you came in;

perhaps she does remember, but no doubt she has changed everything to

please herself, and she takes us now for different people from what we

are, though she knows I'm 'Shatushka.' It doesn't matter my speaking

aloud, she soon leaves off listening to people who talk to her, and

plunges into dreams. Yes, plunges. She's an extraordinary person for

dreaming; she'll sit for eight hours, for whole days together in the

same place. You see there's a roll lying there, perhaps she's only taken

one bite at it since the morning, and she'll finish it to-morrow. Now

she's begun trying her fortune on cards...."

"I keep trying my fortune, Shatushka, but it doesn't come out right,"

Marya Timofyevna put in suddenly, catching the last word, and without

looking at it she put out her left hand for the roll (she had heard

something about the roll too very likely). She got hold of the roll

at last and after keeping it for some time in her left hand, while her

attention was distracted by the conversation which sprang up again, she

put it back again on the table unconsciously without having taken a bite

of it.

"It always comes out the same, a journey, a wicked man, somebody's

treachery, a death-bed, a letter, unexpected news. I think it's all

nonsense. Shatushka, what do you think? If people can tell lies why

shouldn't a card?" She suddenly threw the cards together again. "I said

the same thing to Mother Praskovya, she's a very venerable woman, she

used to run to my cell to tell her fortune on the cards, without letting

the Mother Superior know. Yes, and she wasn't the only one who came to

me. They sigh, and shake their heads at me, they talk it over while I

laugh. 'Where are you going to get a letter from, Mother Praskovya,' I

say, 'when you haven't had one for twelve years?' Her daughter had been

taken away to Turkey by her husband, and for twelve years there had been

no sight nor sound of her. Only I was sitting the next evening at tea

with the Mother Superior (she was a princess by birth), there was some

lady there too, a visitor, a great dreamer, and a little monk from Athos

was sitting there too, a rather absurd man to my thinking. What do you

think, Shatushka, that monk from Athos had brought Mother Praskovya a

letter from her daughter in Turkey, that morning--so much for the knave

of diamonds--unexpected news! We were drinking our tea, and the monk

from Athos said to the Mother Superior, 'Blessed Mother Superior, God

has blessed your convent above all things in that you preserve so great

a treasure in its precincts,' said he. 'What treasure is that?' asked

the Mother Superior. 'The Mother Lizaveta, the Blessed.' This Lizaveta

the Blessed was enshrined in the nunnery wall, in a cage seven feet long

and five feet high, and she had been sitting there for seventeen years

in nothing but a hempen shift, summer and winter, and she always kept

pecking at the hempen cloth with a straw or a twig of some sort, and she

never said a word, and never combed her hair, or washed, for seventeen

years. In the winter they used to put a sheepskin in for her, and every

day a piece of bread and a jug of water. The pilgrims gaze at her, sigh

and exclaim, and make offerings of money. 'A treasure you've pitched

on,' answered the Mother Superior--(she was angry, she disliked Lizaveta

dreadfully)--'Lizaveta only sits there out of spite, out of pure

obstinacy, it is nothing but hypocrisy.' I didn't like this; I was

thinking at the time of shutting myself up too. 'I think,' said I, 'that

God and nature are just the same thing.' They all cried out with

one voice at me, 'Well, now!' The Mother Superior laughed, whispered

something to the lady and called me up, petted me, and the lady gave me

a pink ribbon. Would you like me to show it to you? And the monk began

to admonish me. But he talked so kindly, so humbly, and so wisely, I

suppose. I sat and listened. 'Do you understand?' he asked. 'No,' I

said, 'I don't understand a word, but leave me quite alone.' Ever since

then they've left me in peace, Shatushka. And at that time an old woman

who was living in the convent doing penance for prophesying the future,

whispered to me as she was coming out of church, 'What is the mother of

God? What do you think?' 'The great mother,' I answer, 'the hope of

the human race.' 'Yes,' she answered, 'the mother of God is the great

mother--the damp earth, and therein lies great joy for men. And every

earthly woe and every earthly tear is a joy for us; and when you water

the earth with your tears a foot deep, you will rejoice at everything at

once, and your sorrow will be no more, such is the prophecy.' That word

sank into my heart at the time. Since then when I bow down to the ground

at my prayers, I've taken to kissing the earth. I kiss it and weep. And

let me tell you, Shatushka, there's no harm in those tears; and even

if one has no grief, one's tears flow from joy. The tears flow of

themselves, that's the truth. I used to go out to the shores of the

lake; on one side was our convent and on the other the pointed mountain,

they called it the Peak. I used to go up that mountain, facing the east,

fall down to the ground, and weep and weep, and I don't know how long

I wept, and I don't remember or know anything about it. I would get up,

and turn back when the sun was setting, it was so big, and splendid and

glorious--do you like looking at the sun, Shatushka? It's beautiful but

sad. I would turn to the east again, and the shadow, the shadow of our

mountain was flying like an arrow over our lake, long, long and narrow,

stretching a mile beyond, right up to the island on the lake and cutting

that rocky island right in two, and as it cut it in two, the sun would

set altogether and suddenly all would be darkness. And then I used to be

quite miserable, suddenly I used to remember, I'm afraid of the dark,

Shatushka. And what I wept for most was my baby...."

"Why, had you one?" And Shatov, who had been listening attentively all

the time, nudged me with his elbow.

"Why, of course. A little rosy baby with tiny little nails, and my only

grief is I can't remember whether it was a boy or a girl. Sometimes

I remember it was a boy, and sometimes it was a girl. And when he was

born, I wrapped him in cambric and lace, and put pink ribbons on him,

strewed him with flowers, got him ready, said prayers over him. I took

him away un-christened and carried him through the forest, and I was

afraid of the forest, and I was frightened, and what I weep for most is

that I had a baby and I never had a husband."

"Perhaps you had one?" Shatov queried cautiously.

"You're absurd, Shatushka, with your reflections. I had, perhaps I had,

but what's the use of my having had one, if it's just the same as though

I hadn't. There's an easy riddle for you. Guess it!" she laughed.

"Where did you take your baby?"

"I took it to the pond," she said with a sigh.

Shatov nudged me again.

"And what if you never had a baby and all this is only a wild dream?"

"You ask me a hard question, Shatushka," she answered dreamily, without

a trace of surprise at such a question. "I can't tell you anything about

that, perhaps I hadn't; I think that's only your curiosity. I shan't

leave off crying for him anyway, I couldn't have dreamt it." And big

tears glittered in her eyes. "Shatushka, Shatushka, is it true that your

wife ran away from you?"

She suddenly put both hands on his shoulders, and looked at him

pityingly. "Don't be angry, I feel sick myself. Do you know, Shatushka,

I've had a dream: he came to me again, he beckoned me, called me. 'My

little puss,' he cried to me, 'little puss, come to me!' And I was more

delighted at that 'little puss' than anything; he loves me, I thought."

"Perhaps he will come in reality," Shatov muttered in an undertone.

"No, Shatushka, that's a dream.... He can't come in reality. You know

the song:

'A new fine house I do not crave,

This tiny cell's enough for me;

There will I dwell my soul to save

And ever pray to God for thee.'

Ach, Shatushka, Shatushka, my dear, why do you never ask me about

anything?"

"Why, you won't tell. That's why I don't ask."

"I won't tell, I won't tell," she answered quickly. "You may kill me, I

won't tell. You may burn me, I won't tell. And whatever I had to bear

I'd never tell, people won't find out!"

"There, you see. Every one has something of their own," Shatov said,

still more softly, his head drooping lower and lower.

"But if you were to ask perhaps I should tell, perhaps I should!"

she repeated ecstatically. "Why don't you ask? Ask, ask me nicely,

Shatushka, perhaps I shall tell you. Entreat me, Shatushka, so that I

shall consent of myself. Shatushka, Shatushka!"

But Shatushka was silent. There was complete silence lasting a minute.

Tears slowly trickled down her painted cheeks. She sat forgetting her

two hands on Shatov's shoulders, but no longer looking at him.

"Ach, what is it to do with me, and it's a sin." Shatov suddenly got up

from the bench.

"Get up!" He angrily pulled the bench from under me and put it back

where it stood before.

"He'll be coming, so we must mind he doesn't guess. It's time we were

off."

"Ach, you're talking of my footman," Marya Timofyevna laughed suddenly.

"You're afraid of him. Well, good-bye, dear visitors, but listen for one

minute, I've something to tell you. That Nilitch came here with Filipov,

the landlord, a red beard, and my fellow had flown at me just then, so

the landlord caught hold of him and pulled him about the room while he

shouted 'It's not my fault, I'm suffering for another man's sin!' So

would you believe it, we all burst out laughing...."

"Ach, Timofyevna, why it was I, not the red beard, it was I pulled

him away from you by his hair, this morning; the landlord came the day

before yesterday to make a row; you've mixed it up."

"Stay, I really have mixed it up. Perhaps it was you. Why dispute about

trifles? What does it matter to him who it is gives him a beating?" She

laughed.

"Come along!" Shatov pulled me. "The gate's creaking, he'll find us and

beat her."

And before we had time to run out on to the stairs we heard a drunken

shout and a shower of oaths at the gate.

Shatov let me into his room and locked the door.

"You'll have to stay a minute if you don't want a scene. He's squealing

like a little pig, he must have stumbled over the gate again. He falls

flat every time."

We didn't get off without a scene, however.

VI

Shatov stood at the closed door of his room and listened; suddenly he

sprang back.

"He's coming here, I knew he would," he whispered furiously. "Now

there'll be no getting rid of him till midnight."

Several violent thumps of a fist on the door followed.

"Shatov, Shatov, open!" yelled the captain. "Shatov, friend!

'I have come, to thee to tell thee

That the sun doth r-r-rise apace,

That the forest glows and tr-r-rembles

In... the fire of...his...embrace.

Tell thee I have waked, God damn thee,

Wakened under the birch-twigs....'

("As it might be under the birch-rods, ha ha!")

'Every little bird...is...thirsty,

Says I'm going to...have a drink,

But I don't...know what to drink....'

"Damn his stupid curiosity! Shatov, do you understand how good it is to

be alive!"

"Don't answer!" Shatov whispered to me again.

"Open the door! Do you understand that there's something higher than

brawling... in mankind; there are moments of an hon-hon-honourable

man.... Shatov, I'm good; I'll forgive you.... Shatov, damn the

manifestoes, eh?"

Silence.

"Do you understand, you ass, that I'm in love, that I've bought a

dress-coat, look, the garb of love, fifteen roubles; a captain's love

calls for the niceties of style.... Open the door!" he roared savagely

all of a sudden, and he began furiously banging with his fists again.

"Go to hell!" Shatov roared suddenly.

"S-s-slave! Bond-slave, and your sister's a slave, a bondswoman... a

th... th... ief!"

"And you sold your sister."

"That's a lie! I put up with the libel though. I could with one word...

do you understand what she is?"

"What?" Shatov at once drew near the door inquisitively.

"But will you understand?"

"Yes, I shall understand, tell me what?"

"I'm not afraid to say! I'm never afraid to say anything in public!..."

"You not afraid? A likely story," said Shatov, taunting him, and nodding

to me to listen.

"Me afraid?"

"Yes, I think you are."

"Me afraid?"

"Well then, tell away if you're not afraid of your master's whip....

You're a coward, though you are a captain!"

"I... I... she's... she's..." faltered Lebyadkin in a voice shaking with

excitement.

"Well?" Shatov put his ear to the door.

A silence followed, lasting at least half a minute.

"Sc-ou-oundrel!" came from the other side of the door at last, and the

captain hurriedly beat a retreat downstairs, puffing like a samovar,

stumbling on every step.

"Yes, he's a sly one, and won't give himself away even when he's drunk."

Shatov moved away from the door.

"What's it all about?" I asked.

Shatov waved aside the question, opened the door and began listening

on the stairs again. He listened a long while, and even stealthily

descended a few steps. At last he came back.

"There's nothing to be heard; he isn't beating her; he must have flopped

down at once to go to sleep. It's time for you to go."

"Listen, Shatov, what am I to gather from all this?"

"Oh, gather what you like!" he answered in a weary and disgusted voice,

and he sat down to his writing-table.

I went away. An improbable idea was growing stronger and stronger in my

mind. I thought of the next day with distress....

VII

This "next day," the very Sunday which was to decide Stepan

Trofimovitch's fate irrevocably, was one of the most memorable days in

my chronicle. It was a day of surprises, a day that solved past riddles

and suggested new ones, a day of startling revelations, and still more

hopeless perplexity. In the morning, as the reader is already aware, I

had by Varvara Petrovna's particular request to accompany my friend on

his visit to her, and at three o'clock in the afternoon I had to be with

Lizaveta Nikolaevna in order to tell her--I did not know what--and to

assist her--I did not know how. And meanwhile it all ended as no one

could have expected. In a word, it was a day of wonderful coincidences.

To begin with, when Stepan Trofimovitch and I arrived at Varvara

Petrovna's at twelve o'clock punctually, the time she had fixed, we did

not find her at home; she had not yet come back from church. My poor

friend was so disposed, or, more accurately speaking, so indisposed that

this circumstance crushed him at once; he sank almost helpless into

an arm-chair in the drawing-room. I suggested a glass of water; but in

spite of his pallor and the trembling of his hands, he refused it

with dignity. His get-up for the occasion was, by the way, extremely

recherché: a shirt of batiste and embroidered, almost fit for a ball, a

white tie, a new hat in his hand, new straw-coloured gloves, and even a

suspicion of scent. We had hardly sat down when Shatov was shown in by

the butler, obviously also by official invitation. Stepan Trofimovitch

was rising to shake hands with him, but Shatov, after looking

attentively at us both, turned away into a corner, and sat down there

without even nodding to us. Stepan Trofimovitch looked at me in dismay

again.

We sat like this for some minutes longer in complete silence. Stepan

Trofimovitch suddenly began whispering something to me very quickly,

but I could not catch it; and indeed, he was so agitated himself that he

broke off without finishing. The butler came in once more, ostensibly to

set something straight on the table, more probably to take a look at us.

Shatov suddenly addressed him with a loud question:

"Alexey Yegorytch, do you know whether Darya Pavlovna has gone with

her?"

"Varvara Petrovna was pleased to drive to the cathedral alone, and Darya

Pavlovna was pleased to remain in her room upstairs, being indisposed,"

Alexey Yegorytch announced formally and reprovingly.

My poor friend again stole a hurried and agitated glance at me, so

that at last I turned away from him. Suddenly a carriage rumbled at the

entrance, and some commotion at a distance in the house made us aware

of the lady's return. We all leapt up from our easy chairs, but again

a surprise awaited us; we heard the noise of many footsteps, so our

hostess must have returned not alone, and this certainly was rather

strange, since she had fixed that time herself. Finally, we heard some

one come in with strange rapidity as though running, in a way that

Varvara Petrovna could not have come in. And, all at once she almost

flew into the room, panting and extremely agitated. After her a little

later and much more quickly Lizaveta Nikolaevna came in, and with her,

hand in hand, Marya Timofyevna Lebyadkin! If I had seen this in my

dreams, even then I should not have believed it.

To explain their utterly unexpected appearance, I must go back an

hour and describe more in detail an extraordinary adventure which had

befallen Varvara Petrovna in church.

In the first place almost the whole town, that is, of course, all of the

upper stratum of society, were assembled in the cathedral. It was known

that the governor's wife was to make her appearance there for the

first time since her arrival amongst us. I must mention that there were

already rumours that she was a free-thinker, and a follower of "the new

principles." All the ladies were also aware that she would be dressed

with magnificence and extraordinary elegance. And so the costumes of our

ladies were elaborate and gorgeous for the occasion.

Only Varvara Petrovna was modestly dressed in black as she always was,

and had been for the last four years. She had taken her usual place in

church in the first row on the left, and a footman in livery had put

down a velvet cushion for her to kneel on; everything in fact, had been

as usual. But it was noticed, too, that all through the service she

prayed with extreme fervour. It was even asserted afterwards when people

recalled it, that she had had tears in her eyes. The service was over at

last, and our chief priest, Father Pavel, came out to deliver a solemn

sermon. We liked his sermons and thought very highly of them. We used

even to try to persuade him to print them, but he never could make up

his mind to. On this occasion the sermon was a particularly long one.

And behold, during the sermon a lady drove up to the church in an old

fashioned hired droshky, that is, one in which the lady could only sit

sideways, holding on to the driver's sash, shaking at every jolt like a

blade of grass in the breeze. Such droshkys are still to be seen in our

town. Stopping at the corner of the cathedral--for there were a number

of carriages, and mounted police too, at the gates--the lady sprang out

of the droshky and handed the driver four kopecks in silver.

"Isn't it enough, Vanya?" she cried, seeing his grimace. "It's all I've

got," she added plaintively.

"Well, there, bless you. I took you without fixing the price," said the

driver with a hopeless gesture, and looking at her he added as though

reflecting:

"And it would be a sin to take advantage of you too."

Then, thrusting his leather purse into his bosom, he touched up his

horse and drove off, followed by the jeers of the drivers standing near.

Jeers, and wonder too, followed the lady as she made her way to the

cathedral gates, between the carriages and the footmen waiting for

their masters to come out. And indeed, there certainly was something

extraordinary and surprising to every one in such a person's suddenly

appearing in the street among people. She was painfully thin and she

limped, she was heavily powdered and rouged; her long neck was quite

bare, she had neither kerchief nor pelisse; she had nothing on but an

old dark dress in spite of the cold and windy, though bright, September

day. She was bareheaded, and her hair was twisted up into a tiny knot,

and on the right side of it was stuck an artificial rose, such as are

used to dedicate cherubs sold in Palm week. I had noticed just such a

one with a wreath of paper roses in a corner under the ikons when I was

at Marya Timofyevna's the day before. To put a finishing-touch to it,

though the lady walked with modestly downcast eyes there was a sly and

merry smile on her face. If she had lingered a moment longer, she would

perhaps not have been allowed to enter the cathedral. But she succeeded

in slipping by, and entering the building, gradually pressed forward.

Though it was half-way through the sermon, and the dense crowd that

filled the cathedral was listening to it with absorbed and silent

attention, yet several pairs of eyes glanced with curiosity and

amazement at the new-comer. She sank on to the floor, bowed her painted

face down to it, lay there a long time, unmistakably weeping; but

raising her head again and getting up from her knees, she soon

recovered, and was diverted. Gaily and with evident and intense

enjoyment she let her eyes rove over the faces, and over the walls

of the cathedral. She looked with particular curiosity at some of the

ladies, even standing on tip-toe to look at them, and even laughed once

or twice, giggling strangely. But the sermon was over, and they brought

out the cross. The governor's wife was the first to go up to the cross,

but she stopped short two steps from it, evidently wishing to make way

for Varvara Petrovna, who, on her side, moved towards it quite directly

as though she noticed no one in front of her. There was an obvious and,

in its way, clever malice implied in this extraordinary act of deference

on the part of the governor's wife; every one felt this; Varvara

Petrovna must have felt it too; but she went on as before, apparently

noticing no one, and with the same unfaltering air of dignity kissed the

cross, and at once turned to leave the cathedral. A footman in livery

cleared the way for her, though every one stepped back spontaneously to

let her pass. But just as she was going out, in the porch the closely

packed mass of people blocked the way for a moment. Varvara Petrovna

stood still, and suddenly a strange, extraordinary creature, the woman

with the paper rose on her head, squeezed through the people, and

fell on her knees before her. Varvara Petrovna, who was not easily

disconcerted, especially in public, looked at her sternly and with

dignity.

I hasten to observe here, as briefly as possible, that though Varvara

Petrovna had become, it was said, excessively careful and even stingy,

yet sometimes she was not sparing of money, especially for benevolent

objects. She was a member of a charitable society in the capital. In

the last famine year she had sent five hundred roubles to the chief

committee for the relief of the sufferers, and people talked of it in

the town. Moreover, just before the appointment of the new governor, she

had been on the very point of founding a local committee of ladies to

assist the poorest mothers in the town and in the province. She

was severely censured among us for ambition; but Varvara Petrovna's

well-known strenuousness and, at the same time, her persistence nearly

triumphed over all obstacles. The society was almost formed, and the

original idea embraced a wider and wider scope in the enthusiastic mind

of the foundress. She was already dreaming of founding a similar society

in Moscow, and the gradual expansion of its influence over all the

provinces of Russia. And now, with the sudden change of governor,

everything was at a standstill; and the new governor's wife had, it was

said, already uttered in society some biting, and, what was worse, apt

and sensible remarks about the impracticability of the fundamental idea

of such a committee, which was, with additions of course, repeated to

Varvara Petrovna. God alone knows the secrets of men's hearts; but I

imagine that Varvara Petrovna stood still now at the very cathedral

gates positively with a certain pleasure, knowing that the governor's

wife and, after her, all the congregation, would have to pass by

immediately, and "let her see for herself how little I care what

she thinks, and what pointed things she says about the vanity of my

benevolence. So much for all of you!"

"What is it my dear? What are you asking?" said Varvara Petrovna,

looking more attentively at the kneeling woman before her, who gazed at

her with a fearfully panic-stricken, shame-faced, but almost reverent

expression, and suddenly broke into the same strange giggle.

"What does she want? Who is she?"

Varvara Petrovna bent an imperious and inquiring gaze on all around her.

Every one was silent.

"You are unhappy? You are in need of help?"

"I am in need.... I have come..." faltered the "unhappy" creature, in a

voice broken with emotion. "I have come only to kiss your hand...."

Again she giggled. With the childish look with which little children

caress someone, begging for a favour, she stretched forward to seize

Varvara Petrovna's hand, but, as though panic-stricken, drew her hands

back.

"Is that all you have come for?" said Varvara Petrovna, with a

compassionate smile; but at once she drew her mother-of-pearl purse out

of her pocket, took out a ten-rouble note and gave it to the unknown.

The latter took it. Varvara Petrovna was much interested and evidently

did not look upon her as an ordinary low-class beggar.

"I say, she gave her ten roubles!" someone said in the crowd.

"Let me kiss your hand," faltered the unknown, holding tight in the

fingers of her left hand the corner of the ten-rouble note, which

fluttered in the draught. Varvara Petrovna frowned slightly, and with

a serious, almost severe, face held out her hand. The cripple kissed it

with reverence. Her grateful eyes shone with positive ecstasy. At that

moment the governor's wife came up, and a whole crowd of ladies and high

officials flocked after her. The governor's wife was forced to stand

still for a moment in the crush; many people stopped.

"You are trembling. Are you cold?" Varvara Petrovna observed suddenly,

and flinging off her pelisse which a footman caught in mid-air, she took

from her own shoulders a very expensive black shawl, and with her own

hands wrapped it round the bare neck of the still kneeling woman.

"But get up, get up from your knees I beg you!"

The woman got up.

"Where do you live? Is it possible no one knows where she lives?"

Varvara Petrovna glanced round impatiently again. But the crowd was

different now: she saw only the faces of acquaintances, people in

society, surveying the scene, some with severe astonishment, others with

sly curiosity and at the same time guileless eagerness for a sensation,

while others positively laughed.

"I believe her name's Lebyadkin," a good-natured person volunteered at

last in answer to Varvara Petrovna. It was our respectable and respected

merchant Andreev, a man in spectacles with a grey beard, wearing Russian

dress and holding a high round hat in his hands. "They live in the

Filipovs' house in Bogoyavlensky Street."

"Lebyadkin? Filipovs' house? I have heard something.... Thank you, Nikon

Semyonitch. But who is this Lebyadkin?"

"He calls himself a captain, a man, it must be said, not over careful

in his behaviour. And no doubt this is his sister. She must have escaped

from under control," Nikon Semyonitch went on, dropping his voice, and

glancing significantly at Varvara Petrovna.

"I understand. Thank you, Nikon Semyonitch. Your name is Mlle.

Lebyadkin?"

"No, my name's not Lebyadkin."

"Then perhaps your brother's name is Lebyadkin?"

"My brother's name is Lebyadkin."

"This is what I'll do, I'll take you with me now, my dear, and you shall

be driven from me to your family. Would you like to go with me?"

"Ach, I should!" cried Mlle. Lebyadkin, clasping her hands.

"Auntie, auntie, take me with you too!" the voice of Lizaveta Nikolaevna

cried suddenly.

I must observe that Lizaveta Nikolaevna had come to the cathedral with

the governor's wife, while Praskovya Ivanovna had by the doctor's

orders gone for a drive in her carriage, taking Mavriky Nikolaevitch

to entertain her. Liza suddenly left the governor's wife and ran up to

Varvara Petrovna.

"My dear, you know I'm always glad to have you, but what will your

mother say?" Varvara Petrovna began majestically, but she became

suddenly confused, noticing Liza's extraordinary agitation.

"Auntie, auntie, I must come with you!" Liza implored, kissing Varvara

Petrovna.

_"Mais qu'avez vous donc, Lise?"_ the governor's wife asked with

expressive wonder.

"Ah, forgive me, darling, _chère cousine,_ I'm going to auntie's."

Liza turned in passing to her unpleasantly surprised _chère cousine_, and

kissed her twice.

"And tell maman to follow me to auntie's directly; maman meant, fully

meant to come and see you, she said so this morning herself, I forgot to

tell you," Liza pattered on. "I beg your pardon, don't be angry, _Julie,

chère...cousine...._Auntie, I'm ready!"

"If you don't take me with you, auntie, I'll run after your carriage,

screaming," she whispered rapidly and despairingly in Varvara Petrovna's

ear; it was lucky that no one heard. Varvara Petrovna positively

staggered back, and bent her penetrating gaze on the mad girl. That gaze

settled everything. She made up her mind to take Liza with her.

"We must put an end to this!" broke from her lips. "Very well, I'll

take you with pleasure, Liza," she added aloud, "if Yulia Mihailovna

is willing to let you come, of course." With a candid air and

straightforward dignity she addressed the governor's wife directly.

"Oh, certainly, I don't want to deprive her of such a pleasure

especially as I am myself..." Yulia Mihailovna lisped with amazing

affability--"I myself... know well what a fantastic, wilful little head

it is!" Yulia Mihailovna gave a charming smile.

"I thank you extremely," said Varvara Petrovna, with a courteous and

dignified bow.

"And I am the more gratified," Yulia Mihailovna went on, lisping almost

rapturously, flushing all over with agreeable excitement, "that, apart

from the pleasure of being with you Liza should be carried away by such

an excellent, I may say lofty, feeling... of compassion..." (she

glanced at the "unhappy creature") "and... and at the very portal of the

temple...."

"Such a feeling does you honour," Varvara Petrovna approved

magnificently. Yulia Mihailovna impulsively held out her hand and

Varvara Petrovna with perfect readiness touched it with her fingers. The

general effect was excellent, the faces of some of those present beamed

with pleasure, some bland and insinuating smiles were to be seen.

In short it was made manifest to every one in the town that it was not

Yulia Mihailovna who had up till now neglected Varvara Petrovna in not

calling upon her, but on the contrary that Varvara Petrovna had "kept

Yulia Mihailovna within bounds at a distance, while the latter would

have hastened to pay her a visit, going on foot perhaps if necessary,

had she been fully assured that Varvara Petrovna would not turn her

away." And Varvara Petrovna's prestige was enormously increased.

"Get in, my dear." Varvara Petrovna motioned Mlle. Lebyadkin towards the

carriage which had driven up.

The "unhappy creature" hurried gleefully to the carriage door, and there

the footman lifted her in.

"What! You're lame!" cried Varvara Petrovna, seeming quite alarmed,

and she turned pale. (Every one noticed it at the time, but did not

understand it.)

The carriage rolled away. Varvara Petrovna's house was very near

the cathedral. Liza told me afterwards that Miss Lebyadkin laughed

hysterically for the three minutes that the drive lasted, while Varvara

Petrovna sat "as though in a mesmeric sleep." Liza's own expression.

CHAPTER V. THE SUBTLE SERPENT

I

VARVARA PETROVNA rang the bell and threw herself into an easy chair by

the window.

"Sit here, my dear." She motioned Marya Timofyevna to a seat in the

middle of the room, by a large round table. "Stepan Trofimovitch,

what is the meaning of this? See, see, look at this woman, what is the

meaning of it?"

"I... I..." faltered Stepan Trofimovitch.

But a footman came in.

"A cup of coffee at once, we must have it as quickly as possible! Keep

the horses!"

_"Mais, chère et excellente amie, dans quelle inquiétude..."_ Stepan

Trofimovitch exclaimed in a dying voice.

"Ach! French! French! I can see at once that it's the highest society,"

cried Marya Timofyevna, clapping her hands, ecstatically preparing

herself to listen to a conversation in French. Varvara Petrovna stared

at her almost in dismay.

We all sat in silence, waiting to see how it would end. Shatov did not

lift up his head, and Stepan Trofimovitch was overwhelmed with confusion

as though it were all his fault; the perspiration stood out on his

temples. I glanced at Liza (she was sitting in the corner almost beside

Shatov). Her eyes darted keenly from Varvara Petrovna to the cripple and

back again; her lips were drawn into a smile, but not a pleasant

one. Varvara Petrovna saw that smile. Meanwhile Marya Timofyevna was

absolutely transported. With evident enjoyment and without a trace

of embarrassment she stared at Varvara Petrovna's beautiful

drawing-room--the furniture, the carpets, the pictures on the walls, the

old-fashioned painted ceiling, the great bronze crucifix in the corner,

the china lamp, the albums, the objects on the table.

"And you're here, too, Shatushka!" she cried suddenly. "Only fancy, I

saw you a long time ago, but I thought it couldn't be you! How could you

come here!" And she laughed gaily.

"You know this woman?" said Varvara Petrovna, turning to him at once.

"I know her," muttered Shatov. He seemed about to move from his chair,

but remained sitting.

"What do you know of her? Make haste, please!"

"Oh, well..." he stammered with an incongruous smile. "You see for

yourself...."

"What do I see? Come now, say something!"

"She lives in the same house as I do... with her brother... an officer."

"Well?"

Shatov stammered again.

"It's not worth talking about..." he muttered, and relapsed into

determined silence. He positively flushed with determination.

"Of course one can expect nothing else from you," said Varvara Petrovna

indignantly. It was clear to her now that they all knew something and,

at the same time, that they were all scared, that they were evading her

questions, and anxious to keep something from her.

The footman came in and brought her, on a little silver tray, the cup of

coffee she had so specially ordered, but at a sign from her moved with

it at once towards Marya Timofyevna.

"You were very cold just now, my dear; make haste and drink it and get

warm."

_"Merci."_

Marya Timofyevna took the cup and at once went off into a giggle

at having said _merci_ to the footman. But meeting Varvara Petrovna's

reproving eyes, she was overcome with shyness and put the cup on the

table.

"Auntie, surely you're not angry?" she faltered with a sort of flippant

playfulness.

"Wh-a-a-t?" Varvara Petrovna started, and drew herself up in her chair.

"I'm not your aunt. What are you thinking of?"

Marya Timofyevna, not expecting such an angry outburst, began trembling

all over in little convulsive shudders, as though she were in a fit, and

sank back in her chair.

"I... I... thought that was the proper way," she faltered, gazing

open-eyed at Varvara Petrovna. "Liza called you that."

"What Liza?"

"Why, this young lady here," said Marya Timofyevna, pointing with her

finger.

"So she's Liza already?"

"You called her that yourself just now," said Marya Timofyevna growing

a little bolder. "And I dreamed of a beauty like that," she added,

laughing, as it were accidentally.

Varvara Petrovna reflected, and grew calmer, she even smiled faintly at

Marya Timofyevna's last words; the latter, catching her smile, got up

from her chair, and limping, went timidly towards her.

"Take it. I forgot to give it back. Don't be angry with my rudeness."

She took from her shoulders the black shawl that Varvara Petrovna had

wrapped round her.

"Put it on again at once, and you can keep it always. Go and sit down,

drink your coffee, and please don't be afraid of me, my dear, don't

worry yourself. I am beginning to understand you."

_"Chère amie..."_ Stepan Trofimovitch ventured again.

"Ach, Stepan Trofimovitch, it's bewildering enough without you. You

might at least spare me.... Please ring that bell there, near you, to

the maid's room."

A silence followed. Her eyes strayed irritably and suspiciously over all

our faces. Agasha, her favourite maid, came in.

"Bring me my check shawl, the one I bought in Geneva. What's Darya

Pavlovna doing?"

"She's not very well, madam."

"Go and ask her to come here. Say that I want her particularly, even if

she's not well."

At that instant there was again, as before, an unusual noise of steps

and voices in the next room, and suddenly Praskovya Ivanovna, panting

and "distracted," appeared in the doorway. She was leaning on the arm of

Mavriky Nikolaevitch.

"Ach, heavens, I could scarcely drag myself here. Liza, you mad girl,

how you treat your mother!" she squeaked, concentrating in that squeak,

as weak and irritable people are wont to do, all her accumulated

irritability. "Varvara Petrovna, I've come for my daughter!"

Varvara Petrovna looked at her from under her brows, half rose to meet

her, and scarcely concealing her vexation brought out: "Good morning,

Praskovya Ivanovna, please be seated, I knew you would come!"

II

There could be nothing surprising to Praskovya Ivanovna in such a

reception. Varvara Petrovna had from childhood upwards treated her

old school friend tyrannically, and under a show of friendship almost

contemptuously. And this was an exceptional occasion too. During the

last few days there had almost been a complete rupture between the two

households, as I have mentioned incidentally already. The reason of this

rupture was still a mystery to Varvara Petrovna, which made it all

the more offensive; but the chief cause of offence was that Praskovya

Ivanovna had succeeded in taking up an extraordinarily supercilious

attitude towards Varvara Petrovna. Varvara Petrovna was wounded of

course, and meanwhile some strange rumours had reached her which also

irritated her extremely, especially by their vagueness. Varvara Petrovna

was of a direct and proudly frank character, somewhat slap-dash in her

methods, indeed, if the expression is permissible. There was nothing

she detested so much as secret and mysterious insinuations, she always

preferred war in the open. Anyway, the two ladies had not met for five

days. The last visit had been paid by Varvara Petrovna, who had come

back from "that Drozdov woman" offended and perplexed. I can say with

certainty that Praskovya Ivanovna had come on this occasion with the

naïve conviction that Varvara Petrovna would, for some reason, be sure

to stand in awe of her. This was evident from the very expression of her

face. Evidently too, Varvara Petrovna was always possessed by a demon of

haughty pride whenever she had the least ground for suspecting that she

was for some reason supposed to be humiliated. Like many weak people,

who for a long time allow themselves to be insulted without resenting

it, Praskovya Ivanovna showed an extraordinary violence in her attack at

the first favourable opportunity. It is true that she was not well, and

always became more irritable in illness. I must add finally, that our

presence in the drawing-room could hardly be much check to the two

ladies who had been friends from childhood, if a quarrel had broken out

between them. We were looked upon as friends of the family, and almost

as their subjects. I made that reflection with some alarm at the time.

Stepan Trofimovitch, who had not sat down since the entrance of Varvara

Petrovna, sank helplessly into an arm-chair on hearing Praskovya

Ivanovna's squeal, and tried to catch my eye with a look of despair.

Shatov turned sharply in his chair, and growled something to himself.

I believe he meant to get up and go away. Liza rose from her chair but

sank back again at once without even paying befitting attention to her

mother's squeal--not from "waywardness," but obviously because she

was entirely absorbed by some other overwhelming impression. She was

looking absent-mindedly into the air, no longer noticing even Marya

Timofyevna.

III

"Ach, here!" Praskovya Ivanovna indicated an easy chair near the table

and sank heavily into it with the assistance of Mavriky Nikolaevitch.

"I wouldn't have sat down in your house, my lady, if it weren't for my

legs," she added in a breaking voice.

Varvara Petrovna raised her head a little, and with an expression of

suffering pressed the fingers of her right hand to her right temple,

evidently in acute pain _(tic douloureux)_.

"Why so, Praskovya Ivanovna; why wouldn't you sit down in my house? I

possessed your late husband's sincere friendship all his life; and you

and I used to play with our dolls at school together as girls."

Praskovya Ivanovna waved her hands.

"I knew that was coming! You always begin about the school when you want

to reproach me--that's your way. But to my thinking that's only fine

talk. I can't stand the school you're always talking about."

"You've come in rather a bad temper, I'm afraid; how are your legs? Here

they're bringing you some coffee, please have some, drink it and don't

be cross."

"Varvara Petrovna, you treat me as though I were a child. I won't have

any coffee, so there!"

And she pettishly waved away the footman who was bringing her coffee.

(All the others refused coffee too except Mavriky Nikolaevitch and me.

Stepan Trofimovitch took it, but put it aside on the table. Though Marya

Timofyevna was very eager to have another cup and even put out her hand

to take it, on second thoughts she refused it ceremoniously, and was

obviously pleased with herself for doing so.)

Varvara Petrovna gave a wry smile.

"I'll tell you what it is, Praskovya Ivanovna, my friend, you must

have taken some fancy into your head again, and that's why you've come.

You've simply lived on fancies all your life. You flew into a fury at

the mere mention of our school; but do you remember how you came and

persuaded all the class that a hussar called Shablykin had proposed to

you, and how Mme. Lefebure proved on the spot you were lying. Yet you

weren't lying, you were simply imagining it all to amuse yourself. Come,

tell me, what is it now? What are you fancying now; what is it vexes

you?"

"And you fell in love with the priest who used to teach us scripture at

school--so much for you, since you've such a spiteful memory. Ha ha ha!"

She laughed viciously and went off into a fit of coughing.

"Ah, you've not forgotten the priest then..." said Varvara Petrovna,

looking at her vindictively.

Her face turned green. Praskovya Ivanovna suddenly assumed a dignified

air.

"I'm in no laughing mood now, madam. Why have you drawn my daughter

into your scandals in the face of the whole town? That's what I've come

about."

"My scandals?" Varvara Petrovna drew herself up menacingly.

"Maman, I entreat you too, to restrain yourself," Lizaveta Nikolaevna

brought out suddenly.

"What's that you say?" The maman was on the point of breaking into a

squeal again, but catching her daughter's flashing eye, she subsided

suddenly.

"How could you talk about scandal, maman?" cried Liza, flushing red.

"I came of my own accord with Yulia Mihailovna's permission, because I

wanted to learn this unhappy woman's story and to be of use to her."

"This unhappy woman's story!" Praskovya Ivanovna drawled with a spiteful

laugh. "Is it your place to mix yourself up with such 'stories.' Ach,

enough of your tyrannising!" She turned furiously to Varvara Petrovna.

"I don't know whether it's true or not, they say you keep the whole town

in order, but it seems your turn has come at last."

Varvara Petrovna sat straight as an arrow ready to fly from the bow. For

ten seconds she looked sternly and immovably at Praskovya Ivanovna.

"Well, Praskovya, you must thank God that all here present are our

friends," she said at last with ominous composure. "You've said a great

deal better unsaid."

"But I'm not so much afraid of what the world will say, my lady, as

some people. It's you who, under a show of pride, are trembling at what

people will say. And as for all here being your friends, it's better for

you than if strangers had been listening."

"Have you grown wiser during this last week?"

"It's not that I've grown wiser, but simply that the truth has come out

this week."

"What truth has come out this week? Listen, Praskovya Ivanovna, don't

irritate me. Explain to me this minute, I beg you as a favour, what

truth has come out and what do you mean by that?"

"Why there it is, sitting before you!" and Praskovya Ivanovna suddenly

pointed at Marya Timofyevna with that desperate determination which

takes no heed of consequences, if only it can make an impression at

the moment. Marya Timofyevna, who had watched her all the time with

light-hearted curiosity, laughed exultingly at the sight of the wrathful

guest's finger pointed impetuously at her, and wriggled gleefully in her

easy chair.

"God Almighty have mercy on us, they've all gone crazy!" exclaimed

Varvara Petrovna, and turning pale she sank back in her chair.

She turned so pale that it caused some commotion. Stepan Trofimovitch

was the first to rush up to her. I drew near also; even Liza got up from

her seat, though she did not come forward. But the most alarmed of all

was Praskovya Ivanovna herself. She uttered a scream, got up as far as

she could and almost wailed in a lachrymose voice:

"Varvara Petrovna, dear, forgive me for my wicked foolishness! Give her

some water, somebody."

"Don't whimper, please, Praskovya Ivanovna, and leave me alone,

gentlemen, please, I don't want any water!" Varvara Petrovna pronounced

in a firm though low voice, with blanched lips.

"Varvara Petrovna, my dear," Praskovya Ivanovna went on, a little

reassured, "though I am to blame for my reckless words, what's upset me

more than anything are these anonymous letters that some low creatures

keep bombarding me with; they might write to you, since it concerns you,

but I've a daughter!"

Varvara Petrovna looked at her in silence, with wide-open eyes,

listening with wonder. At that moment a side-door in the corner opened

noiselessly, and Darya Pavlovna made her appearance. She stood still and

looked round. She was struck by our perturbation. Probably she did not

at first distinguish Marya Timofyevna, of whose presence she had not

been informed. Stepan Trofimovitch was the first to notice her; he made

a rapid movement, turned red, and for some reason proclaimed in a loud

voice: "Darya Pavlovna!" so that all eyes turned on the new-comer.

"Oh, is this your Darya Pavlovna!" cried Marya Timofyevna. "Well,

Shatushka, your sister's not like you. How can my fellow call such a

charmer the serf-wench Dasha?"

Meanwhile Darya Pavlovna had gone up to Varvara Petrovna, but struck

by Marya Timofyevna's exclamation she turned quickly and stopped just

before her chair, looking at the imbecile with a long fixed gaze.

"Sit down, Dasha," Varvara Petrovna brought out with terrifying

composure. "Nearer, that's right. You can see this woman, sitting down.

Do you know her?"

"I have never seen her," Dasha answered quietly, and after a pause she

added at once:

"She must be the invalid sister of Captain Lebyadkin."

"And it's the first time I've set eyes on you, my love, though I've been

interested and wanted to know you a long time, for I see how

well-bred you are in every movement you make," Marya Timofyevna cried

enthusiastically. "And though my footman swears at you, can such a

well-educated charming person as you really have stolen money from

him? For you are sweet, sweet, sweet, I tell you that from myself!" she

concluded, enthusiastically waving her hand.

"Can you make anything of it?" Varvara Petrovna asked with proud

dignity.

"I understand it...."

"Have you heard about the money?"

"No doubt it's the money that I undertook at Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch's

request to hand over to her brother, Captain Lebyadkin."

A silence followed.

"Did Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch himself ask you to do so?"

"He was very anxious to send that money, three hundred roubles, to Mr.

Lebyadkin. And as he didn't know his address, but only knew that he

was to be in our town, he charged me to give it to Mr. Lebyadkin if he

came."

"What is the money... lost? What was this woman speaking about just

now?"

"That I don't know. I've heard before that Mr. Lebyadkin says I didn't

give him all the money, but I don't understand his words. There were

three hundred roubles and I sent him three hundred roubles."

Darya Pavlovna had almost completely regained her composure. And it was

difficult, I may mention, as a rule, to astonish the girl or ruffle her

calm for long--whatever she might be feeling. She brought out all her

answers now without haste, replied immediately to every question with

accuracy, quietly, smoothly, and without a trace of the sudden emotion

she had shown at first, or the slightest embarrassment which might

have suggested a consciousness of guilt. Varvara Petrovna's eyes were

fastened upon her all the time she was speaking. Varvara Petrovna

thought for a minute:

"If," she pronounced at last firmly, evidently addressing all present,

though she only looked at Dasha, "if Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch

did not appeal even to me but asked you to do this for him,

he must have had his reasons for doing so. I don't consider I have

any right to inquire into them, if they are kept secret from me. But the

very fact of your having taken part in the matter reassures me on that

score, be sure of that, Darya, in any case. But you see, my dear, you

may, through ignorance of the world, have quite innocently done

something imprudent; and you did so when you undertook to have dealings

with a low character. The rumours spread by this rascal show what a

mistake you made. But I will find out about him, and as it is my task to

protect you, I shall know how to defend you. But now all this must be

put a stop to."

"The best thing to do," said Marya Timofyevna, popping up from her

chair, "is to send him to the footmen's room when he comes. Let him

sit on the benches there and play cards with them while we sit here and

drink coffee. We might send him a cup of coffee too, but I have a great

contempt for him."

And she wagged her head expressively.

"We must put a stop to this," Varvara Petrovna repeated, listening

attentively to Marya Timofyevna. "Ring, Stepan Trofimovitch, I beg you."

Stepan Trofimovitch rang, and suddenly stepped forward, all excitement.

"If... if..." he faltered feverishly, flushing, breaking off and

stuttering, "if I too have heard the most revolting story, or rather

slander, it was with utter indignation..._enfin c'est un homme perdu, et

quelque chose comme un forçat evadé...._"

He broke down and could not go on. Varvara Petrovna, screwing up her

eyes, looked him up and down.

The ceremonious butler Alexey Yegorytch came in.

"The carriage," Varvara Petrovna ordered. "And you, Alexey Yegorytch,

get ready to escort Miss Lebyadkin home; she will give you the address

herself."

"Mr. Lebyadkin has been waiting for her for some time downstairs, and

has been begging me to announce him."

"That's impossible, Varvara Petrovna!" and Mavriky Nikolaevitch, who had

sat all the time in unbroken silence, suddenly came forward in alarm.

"If I may speak, he is not a man who can be admitted into society.

He... he... he's an impossible person, Varvara Petrovna!"

"Wait a moment," said Varvara Petrovna to Alexey Yegorytch, and he

disappeared at once.

_"C'est un homme malhonnête et je crois même que c'est un forçat evadé

ou quelque chose dans ce genre,"_ Stepan Trofimovitch muttered again, and

again he flushed red and broke off.

"Liza, it's time we were going," announced Praskovya Ivanovna

disdainfully, getting up from her seat. She seemed sorry that in her

alarm she had called herself a fool. While Darya Pavlovna was speaking,

she listened, pressing her lips superciliously. But what struck me most

was the expression of Lizaveta Nikolaevna from the moment Darya Pavlovna

had come in. There was a gleam of hatred and hardly disguised contempt

in her eyes.

"Wait one minute, Praskovya Ivanovna, I beg you." Varvara Petrovna

detained her, still with the same exaggerated composure. "Kindly sit

down. I intend to speak out, and your legs are bad. That's right, thank

you. I lost my temper just now and uttered some impatient words. Be so

good as to forgive me. I behaved foolishly and I'm the first to regret

it, because I like fairness in everything. Losing your temper too,

of course, you spoke of certain anonymous letters. Every anonymous

communication is deserving of contempt, just because it's not signed. If

you think differently I'm sorry for you. In any case, if I were in your

place, I would not pry into such dirty corners, I would not soil my

hands with it. But you have soiled yours. However, since you have

begun on the subject yourself, I must tell you that six days ago I too

received a clownish anonymous letter. In it some rascal informs me that

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch has gone out of his mind, and that I have reason

to fear some lame woman, who 'is destined to play a great part in

my life.' I remember the expression. Reflecting and being aware that

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch has very numerous enemies, I promptly sent for a

man living here, one of his secret enemies, and the most vindictive and

contemptible of them, and from my conversation with him I gathered what

was the despicable source of the anonymous letter. If you too, my poor

Praskovya Ivanovna, have been worried by similar letters on my account,

and as you say 'bombarded' with them, I am, of course, the first to

regret having been the innocent cause of it. That's all I wanted to tell

you by way of explanation. I'm very sorry to see that you are so

tired and so upset. Besides, I have quite made up my mind to see that

suspicious personage of whom Mavriky Nikolaevitch said just now, a

little inappropriately, that it was impossible to receive him. Liza in

particular need have nothing to do with it. Come to me, Liza, my dear,

let me kiss you again."

Liza crossed the room and stood in silence before Varvara Petrovna. The

latter kissed her, took her hands, and, holding her at arm's-length,

looked at her with feeling, then made the sign of the cross over her and

kissed her again.

"Well, good-bye, Liza" (there was almost the sound of tears in Varvara

Petrovna's voice), "believe that I shall never cease to love you

whatever fate has in store for you. God be with you. I have always

blessed His Holy Will...."

She would have added something more, but restrained herself and broke

off. Liza was walking back to her place, still in the same silence, as

it were plunged in thought, but she suddenly stopped before her mother.

"I am not going yet, mother. I'll stay a little longer at auntie's," she

brought out in a low voice, but there was a note of iron determination

in those quiet words.

"My goodness! What now?" wailed Praskovya Ivanovna, clasping her hands

helplessly. But Liza did not answer, and seemed indeed not to hear her;

she sat down in the same corner and fell to gazing into space again as

before.

There was a look of pride and triumph in Varvara Petrovna's face.

"Mavriky Nikolaevitch, I have a great favour to ask of you. Be so kind

as to go and take a look at that person downstairs, and if there is any

possibility of admitting him, bring him up here."

Mavriky Nikolaevitch bowed and went out. A moment later he brought in

Mr. Lebyadkin.

IV

I have said something of this gentleman's outward appearance. He was a

tall, curly-haired, thick-set fellow about forty with a purplish, rather

bloated and flabby face, with cheeks that quivered at every movement of

his head, with little bloodshot eyes that were sometimes rather crafty,

with moustaches and side-whiskers, and with an incipient double chin,

fleshy and rather unpleasant-looking. But what was most striking about

him was the fact that he appeared now wearing a dress-coat and clean

linen.

"There are people on whom clean linen is almost unseemly," as Liputin

had once said when Stepan Trofimovitch reproached him in jest for being

untidy. The captain had perfectly new black gloves too, of which he

held the right one in his hand, while the left, tightly stretched and

unbuttoned, covered part of the huge fleshy fist in which he held a

brand-new, glossy round hat, probably worn for the first time that day.

It appeared therefore that "the garb of love," of which he had shouted

to Shatov the day before, really did exist. All this, that is, the

dress-coat and clean linen, had been procured by Liputin's advice with

some mysterious object in view (as I found out later). There was no

doubt that his coming now (in a hired carriage) was at the instigation

and with the assistance of someone else; it would never have dawned on

him, nor could he by himself have succeeded in dressing, getting ready

and making up his mind in three-quarters of an hour, even if the scene

in the porch of the cathedral had reached his ears at once. He was not

drunk, but was in the dull, heavy, dazed condition of a man suddenly

awakened after many days of drinking. It seemed as though he would be

drunk again if one were to put one's hands on his shoulders and rock

him to and fro once or twice. He was hurrying into the drawing-room but

stumbled over a rug near the doorway. Marya Timofyevna was helpless with

laughter. He looked savagely at her and suddenly took a few rapid steps

towards Varvara Petrovna.

"I have come, madam..." he blared out like a trumpet-blast.

"Be so good, sir, as to take a seat there, on that chair," said Varvara

Petrovna, drawing herself up. "I shall hear you as well from there, and

it will be more convenient for me to look at you from here."

The captain stopped short, looking blankly before him. He turned,

however, and sat down on the seat indicated close to the door. An

extreme lack of self-confidence and at the same time insolence, and a

sort of incessant irritability, were apparent in the expression of his

face. He was horribly scared, that was evident, but his self-conceit

was wounded, and it might be surmised that his mortified vanity might on

occasion lead him to any effrontery, in spite of his cowardice. He was

evidently uneasy at every movement of his clumsy person. We all know

that when such gentlemen are brought by some marvellous chance into

society, they find their worst ordeal in their own hands, and the

impossibility of disposing them becomingly, of which they are conscious

at every moment. The captain sat rigid in his chair, with his hat and

gloves in his hands and his eyes fixed with a senseless stare on the

stern face of Varvara Petrovna. He would have liked, perhaps, to have

looked about more freely, but he could not bring himself to do so yet.

Marya Timofyevna, apparently thinking his appearance very funny, laughed

again, but he did not stir. Varvara Petrovna ruthlessly kept him in this

position for a long time, a whole minute, staring at him without mercy.

"In the first place allow me to learn your name from yourself," Varvara

Petrovna pronounced in measured and impressive tones.

"Captain Lebyadkin," thundered the captain. "I have come, madam..." He

made a movement again.

"Allow me!" Varvara Petrovna checked him again. "Is this unfortunate

person who interests me so much really your sister?"

"My sister, madam, who has escaped from control, for she is in a certain

condition...."

He suddenly faltered and turned crimson. "Don't misunderstand me,

madam," he said, terribly confused. "Her own brother's not going to

throw mud at her... in a certain condition doesn't mean in such a

condition... in the sense of an injured reputation... in the last

stage..." he suddenly broke off.

"Sir!" said Varvara Petrovna, raising her head.

"In this condition!" he concluded suddenly, tapping the middle of his

forehead with his finger.

A pause followed.

"And has she suffered in this way for long?" asked Varvara Petrovna,

with a slight drawl.

"Madam, I have come to thank you for the generosity you showed in the

porch, in a Russian, brotherly way."

"Brotherly?"

"I mean, not brotherly, but simply in the sense that I am my sister's

brother; and believe me, madam," he went on more hurriedly, turning

crimson again, "I am not so uneducated as I may appear at first sight in

your drawing-room. My sister and I are nothing, madam, compared with the

luxury we observe here. Having enemies who slander us, besides. But on

the question of reputation Lebyadkin is proud, madam... and... and ...

and I've come to repay with thanks.... Here is money, madam!"

At this point he pulled out a pocket-book, drew out of it a bundle of

notes, and began turning them over with trembling fingers in a perfect

fury of impatience. It was evident that he was in haste to explain

something, and indeed it was quite necessary to do so. But probably

feeling himself that his fluster with the money made him look even more

foolish, he lost the last traces of self-possession. The money refused

to be counted. His fingers fumbled helplessly, and to complete his shame

a green note escaped from the pocket-book, and fluttered in zigzags on

to the carpet.

"Twenty roubles, madam." He leapt up suddenly with the roll of notes in

his hand, his face perspiring with discomfort. Noticing the note which

had dropped on the floor, he was bending down to pick it up, but for

some reason overcome by shame, he dismissed it with a wave.

"For your servants, madam; for the footman who picks it up. Let them

remember my sister!"

"I cannot allow that," Varvara Petrovna brought out hurriedly, even with

some alarm.

"In that case..."

He bent down, picked it up, flushing crimson, and suddenly going up to

Varvara Petrovna held out the notes he had counted.

"What's this?" she cried, really alarmed at last, and positively

shrinking back in her chair.

Mavriky Nikolaevitch, Stepan Trofimovitch, and I all stepped forward.

"Don't be alarmed, don't be alarmed; I'm not mad, by God, I'm not mad,"

the captain kept asseverating excitedly.

"Yes, sir, you're out of your senses."

"Madam, she's not at all as you suppose. I am an insignificant link.

Oh, madam, wealthy are your mansions, but poor is the dwelling of Marya

Anonyma, my sister, whose maiden name was Lebyadkin, but whom we'll call

Anonyma for the time, only for _the time,_ madam, for God Himself will

not suffer it forever. Madam, you gave her ten roubles and she took it,

because it was from _you,_ madam! Do you hear, madam? From no one else

in the world would this Marya Anonyma take it, or her grandfather, the

officer killed in the Caucasus before the very eyes of Yermolov, would

turn in his grave. But from you, madam, from you she will take anything.

But with one hand she takes it, and with the other she holds out to

you twenty roubles by way of subscription to one of the benevolent

committees in Petersburg and Moscow, of which you are a member... for

you published yourself, madam, in the _Moscow News,_ that you are ready to

receive subscriptions in our town, and that any one may subscribe...."

The captain suddenly broke off; he breathed hard as though after some

difficult achievement. All he said about the benevolent society had

probably been prepared beforehand, perhaps under Liputin's supervision.

He perspired more than ever; drops literally trickled down his temples.

Varvara Petrovna looked searchingly at him.

"The subscription list," she said severely, "is always downstairs in

charge of my porter. There you can enter your subscriptions if you wish

to. And so I beg you to put your notes away and not to wave them in the

air. That's right. I beg you also to go back to your seat. That's right.

I am very sorry, sir, that I made a mistake about your sister, and gave

her something as though she were poor when she is so rich. There's only

one thing I don't understand, why she can only take from me, and no one

else. You so insisted upon that that I should like a full explanation."

"Madam, that is a secret that may be buried only in the grave!" answered

the captain.

"Why?" Varvara Petrovna asked, not quite so firmly.

"Madam, madam..."

He relapsed into gloomy silence, looking on the floor, laying his right

hand on his heart. Varvara Petrovna waited, not taking her eyes off him.

"Madam!" he roared suddenly. "Will you allow me to ask you one question?

Only one, but frankly, directly, like a Russian, from the heart?"

"Kindly do so."

"Have you ever suffered madam, in your life?"

"You simply mean to say that you have been or are being ill-treated by

someone."

"Madam, madam!" He jumped up again, probably unconscious of doing

so, and struck himself on the breast. "Here in this bosom so much has

accumulated, so much that God Himself will be amazed when it is revealed

at the Day of Judgment."

"H'm! A strong expression!"

"Madam, I speak perhaps irritably...."

"Don't be uneasy. I know myself when to stop you."

"May I ask you another question, madam?"

"Ask another question."

"Can one die simply from the generosity of one's feelings?"

"I don't know, as I've never asked myself such a question."

"You don't know! You've never asked yourself such a question," he said

with pathetic irony. "Well, if that's it, if that's it...

_"Be still, despairing heart!"_

And he struck himself furiously on the chest. He was by now walking

about the room again.

It is typical of such people to be utterly incapable of keeping their

desires to themselves; they have, on the contrary, an irresistible

impulse to display them in all their unseemliness as soon as they arise.

When such a gentleman gets into a circle in which he is not at home

he usually begins timidly,--but you have only to give him an inch and he

will at once rush into impertinence. The captain was already excited.

He walked about waving his arms and not listening to questions, talked

about himself very, very quickly, so that sometimes his tongue would not

obey him, and without finishing one phrase he passed to another. It is

true he was probably not quite sober. Moreover, Lizaveta Nikolaevna

was sitting there too, and though he did not once glance at her, her

presence seemed to over-excite him terribly; that, however, is only my

supposition. There must have been some reason which led Varvara Petrovna

to resolve to listen to such a man in spite of her repugnance. Praskovya

Ivanovna was simply shaking with terror, though, I believe she really

did not quite understand what it was about. Stepan Trofimovitch was

trembling too, but that was, on the contrary, because he was disposed to

understand everything, and exaggerate it. Mavriky Nikolaevitch stood in

the attitude of one ready to defend all present; Liza was pale, and she

gazed fixedly with wide-open eyes at the wild captain. Shatov sat in

the same position as before, but, what was strangest of all, Marya

Timofyevna had not only ceased laughing, but had become terribly sad.

She leaned her right elbow on the table, and with a prolonged, mournful

gaze watched her brother declaiming. Darya Pavlovna alone seemed to me

calm.

"All that is nonsensical allegory," said Varvara Petrovna, getting angry

at last. "You haven't answered my question, why? I insist on an answer."

"I haven't answered, why? You insist on an answer, why?" repeated

the captain, winking. "That little word 'why' has run through all the

universe from the first day of creation, and all nature cries every

minute to it's Creator, 'why?' And for seven thousand years it has had

no answer, and must Captain Lebyadkin alone answer? And is that justice,

madam?"

"That's all nonsense and not to the point!" cried Varvara Petrovna,

getting angry and losing patience. "That's allegory; besides, you

express yourself too sensationally, sir, which I consider impertinence."

"Madam," the captain went on, not hearing, "I should have liked perhaps

to be called Ernest, yet I am forced to bear the vulgar name Ignat--why

is that do you suppose? I should have liked to be called Prince de

Monbart, yet I am only Lebyadkin, derived from a swan.* Why is that?

I am a poet, madam, a poet in soul, and might be getting a thousand

roubles at a time from a publisher, yet I am forced to live in a pig

pail. Why? Why, madam? To my mind Russia is a freak of nature and

nothing else."

* From Lebyed, a Swan.

"Can you really say nothing more definite?"

"I can read you the poem, 'The Cockroach,' madam."

"Wha-a-t?"

"Madam, I'm not mad yet! I shall be mad, no doubt I shall be, but I'm

not so yet. Madam, a friend of mine--a most honourable man--has written

a Krylov's fable, called 'The Cockroach.' May I read it?"

"You want to read some fable of Krylov's?"

"No, it's not a fable of Krylov's I want to read. It's my fable, my own

composition. Believe me, madam, without offence I'm not so uneducated

and depraved as not to understand that Russia can boast of a great

fable-writer, Krylov, to whom the Minister of Education has raised a

monument in the Summer Gardens for the diversion of the young. Here,

madam, you ask me why? The answer is at the end of this fable, in

letters of fire."

"Read your fable."

"Lived a cockroach in the world

Such was his condition,

In a glass he chanced to fall

Full of fly-perdition."

"Heavens! What does it mean?" cried Varvara Petrovna.

"That's when flies get into a glass in the summer-time," the captain

explained hurriedly with the irritable impatience of an author interrupted

in reading. "Then it is perdition to the flies, any fool can understand.

Don't interrupt, don't interrupt. You'll see, you'll see...." He kept waving

his arms.

"But he squeezed against the flies,

They woke up and cursed him,

Raised to Jove their angry cries;

'The glass is full to bursting!'

In the middle of the din

Came along Nikifor,

Fine old man, and looking in...

I haven't quite finished it. But no matter, I'll tell it in words,"

the captain rattled on. "Nikifor takes the glass, and in spite of their

outcry empties away the whole stew, flies, and beetles and all, into the

pig pail, which ought to have been done long ago. But observe, madam,

observe, the cockroach doesn't complain. That's the answer to your

question, why?" he cried triumphantly. "'The cockroach does not

complain.' As for Nikifor he typifies nature," he added, speaking

rapidly and walking complacently about the room.

Varvara Petrovna was terribly angry.

"And allow me to ask you about that money said to have been received

from Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, and not to have been given to you, about

which you dared to accuse a person belonging to my household."

"It's a slander!" roared Lebyadkin, flinging up his right hand

tragically.

"No, it's not a slander."

"Madam, there are circumstances that force one to endure family disgrace

rather than proclaim the truth aloud. Lebyadkin will not blab, madam!"

He seemed dazed; he was carried away; he felt his importance; he

certainly had some fancy in his mind. By now he wanted to insult some

one, to do something nasty to show his power.

"Ring, please, Stepan Trofimovitch," Varvara Petrovna asked him.

"Lebyadkin's cunning, madam," he said, winking with his evil smile;

"he's cunning, but he too has a weak spot, he too at times is in the

portals of passions, and these portals are the old military hussars'

bottle, celebrated by Denis Davydov. So when he is in those portals,

madam, he may happen to send a letter in verse, a most magnificent

letter--but which afterwards he would have wished to take back, with the

tears of all his life; for the feeling of the beautiful is destroyed.

But the bird has flown, you won't catch it by the tail. In those portals

now, madam, Lebyadkin may have spoken about an honourable young lady,

in the honourable indignation of a soul revolted by wrongs, and his

slanderers have taken advantage of it. But Lebyadkin is cunning, madam!

And in vain a malignant wolf sits over him every minute, filling his

glass and waiting for the end. Lebyadkin won't blab. And at the bottom

of the bottle he always finds instead Lebyadkin's cunning. But enough,

oh, enough, madam! Your splendid halls might belong to the noblest in

the land, but the cockroach will not complain. Observe that, observe

that he does not complain, and recognise his noble spirit!"

At that instant a bell rang downstairs from the porter's room, and

almost at the same moment Alexey Yegorytch appeared in response to

Stepan Trofimovitch's ring, which he had somewhat delayed answering. The

correct old servant was unusually excited.

"Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch has graciously arrived this moment and is

coming here," he pronounced, in reply to Varvara Petrovna's questioning

glance. I particularly remember her at that moment; at first she turned

pale, but suddenly her eyes flashed. She drew herself up in her chair

with an air of extraordinary determination. Every one was astounded

indeed. The utterly unexpected arrival of Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch,

who was not expected for another month, was not only strange from its

unexpectedness but from its fateful coincidence with the present moment.

Even the captain remained standing like a post in the middle of the room

with his mouth wide open, staring at the door with a fearfully stupid

expression.

And, behold, from the next room--a very large and long apartment--came

the sound of swiftly approaching footsteps, little, exceedingly rapid

steps; someone seemed to be running, and that someone suddenly flew

into the drawing-room, not Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, but a young man who

was a complete stranger to all.

V

I will permit myself to halt here to sketch in a few hurried strokes

this person who had so suddenly arrived on the scene.

He was a young man of twenty-seven or thereabouts, a little above the

medium height, with rather long, lank, flaxen hair, and with faintly

defined, irregular moustache and beard. He was dressed neatly, and in

the fashion, though not like a dandy. At the first glance he looked

round-shouldered and awkward, but yet he was not round-shouldered, and

his manner was easy. He seemed a queer fish, and yet later on we all

thought his manners good, and his conversation always to the point.

No one would have said that he was ugly, and yet no one would have liked

his face. His head was elongated at the back, and looked flattened at

the sides, so that his face seemed pointed, his forehead was high and

narrow, but his features were small; his eyes were keen, his nose was

small and sharp, his lips were long and thin. The expression of his face

suggested ill-health, but this was misleading. He had a wrinkle on each

cheek which gave him the look of a man who had just recovered from a

serious illness. Yet he was perfectly well and strong, and had never

been ill.

He walked and moved very hurriedly, yet never seemed in a hurry to

be off. It seemed as though nothing could disconcert him; in every

circumstance and in every sort of society he remained the same. He had a

great deal of conceit, but was utterly unaware of it himself.

He talked quickly, hurriedly, but at the same time with assurance, and

was never at a loss for a word. In spite of his hurried manner his ideas

were in perfect order, distinct and definite--and this was particularly

striking. His articulation was wonderfully clear. His words pattered out

like smooth, big grains, always well chosen, and at your service.

At first this attracted one, but afterwards it became repulsive, just

because of this over-distinct articulation, this string of ever-ready

words. One somehow began to imagine that he must have a tongue of

special shape, somehow exceptionally long and thin, extremely red with a

very sharp everlastingly active little tip.

Well, this was the young man who darted now into the drawing-room, and

really, I believe to this day, that he began to talk in the next room,

and came in speaking. He was standing before Varvara Petrovna in a

trice.

"... Only fancy, Varvara Petrovna," he pattered on, "I came in expecting

to find he'd been here for the last quarter of an hour; he arrived an

hour and a half ago; we met at Kirillov's: he set off half an hour ago

meaning to come straight here, and told me to come here too, a quarter

of an hour later...."

"But who? Who told you to come here?" Varvara Petrovna inquired.

"Why, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch! Surely this isn't the first you've heard

of it! But his luggage must have been here a long while, anyway. How

is it you weren't told? Then I'm the first to bring the news. One might

send out to look for him; he's sure to be here himself directly

though. And I fancy, at the moment that just fits in with some of

his expectations, and is far as I can judge, at least, some of his

calculations."

At this point he turned his eyes about the room and fixed them with

special attention on the captain.

"Ach, Lizaveta Nikolaevna, how glad I am to meet you at the very first

step, delighted to shake hands with you." He flew up to Liza, who

was smiling gaily, to take her proffered hand, "and I observe that my

honoured friend Praskovya Ivanovna has not forgotten her 'professor,'

and actually isn't cross with him, as she always used to be in

Switzerland. But how are your legs, here, Praskovya Ivanovna, and were

the Swiss doctors right when at the consultation they prescribed your

native air? What? Fomentations? That ought to do good. But how sorry I

was, Varvara Petrovna" (he turned rapidly to her) "that I didn't arrive

in time to meet you abroad, and offer my respects to you in person; I

had so much to tell you too. I did send word to my old man here, but I

fancy that he did as he always does..."

"Petrusha!" cried Stepan Trofimovitch, instantly roused from his

stupefaction. He clasped his hands and flew to his son. "_Pierre, mon

enfant!_ Why, I didn't know you!" He pressed him in his arms and the

tears rolled down his cheeks.

"Come, be quiet, be quiet, no flourishes, that's enough, that's enough,

please," Petrusha muttered hurriedly, trying to extricate himself from

his embrace.

"I've always sinned against you, always!"

"Well, that's enough. We can talk of that later. I knew you'd carry on.

Come, be a little more sober, please."

"But it's ten years since I've seen you."

"The less reason for demonstrations."

_"Mon enfant!..."_

"Come, I believe in your affection, I believe in it, take your arms

away. You see, you're disturbing other people.... Ah, here's Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch; keep quiet, please."

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was already in the room; he came in very quietly

and stood still for an instant in the doorway, quietly scrutinising the

company.

I was struck by the first sight of him just as I had been four years

before, when I saw him for the first time. I had not forgotten him in

the least. But I think there are some countenances which always seem to

exhibit something new which one has not noticed before, every time

one meets them, though one may have seen them a hundred times already.

Apparently he was exactly the same as he had been four years before. He

was as elegant, as dignified, he moved with the same air of consequence

as before, indeed he looked almost as young. His faint smile had just

the same official graciousness and complacency. His eyes had the same

stern, thoughtful and, as it were, preoccupied look. In fact, it seemed

as though we had only parted the day before. But one thing struck me. In

old days, though he had been considered handsome, his face was "like a

mask," as some of our sharp-tongued ladies had expressed it. Now--now,

I don't know why he impressed me at once as absolutely, incontestably

beautiful, so that no one could have said that his face was like a mask.

Wasn't it perhaps that he was a little paler and seemed rather thinner

than before? Or was there, perhaps, the light of some new idea in his

eyes?

"Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch!" cried Varvara Petrovna, drawing herself up

but not rising from her chair. "Stop a minute!" She checked his advance

with a peremptory gesture.

But to explain the awful question which immediately followed that

gesture and exclamation--a question which I should have imagined to be

impossible even in Varvara Petrovna, I must ask the reader to remember

what that lady's temperament had always been, and the extraordinary

impulsiveness she showed at some critical moments. I beg him to consider

also, that in spite of the exceptional strength of her spirit and

the very considerable amount of common sense and practical, so to say

business, tact she possessed, there were moments in her life in which

she abandoned herself altogether, entirely and, if it's permissible

to say so, absolutely without restraint. I beg him to take into

consideration also that the present moment might really be for her one

of those in which all the essence of life, of all the past and all the

present, perhaps, too, all the future, is concentrated, as it were,

focused. I must briefly recall, too, the anonymous letter of which she

had spoken to Praskovya Ivanovna with so much irritation, though I think

she said nothing of the latter part of it. Yet it perhaps contained the

explanation of the possibility of the terrible question with which she

suddenly addressed her son.

"Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch," she repeated, rapping out her words in a

resolute voice in which there was a ring of menacing challenge, "I beg

you to tell me at once, without moving from that place; is it true that

this unhappy cripple--here she is, here, look at her--is it true that

she is... your lawful wife?"

I remember that moment only too well; he did not wink an eyelash but

looked intently at his mother. Not the faintest change in his face

followed. At last he smiled, a sort of indulgent smile, and without

answering a word went quietly up to his mother, took her hand, raised it

respectfully to his lips and kissed it. And so great was his invariable

and irresistible ascendancy over his mother that even now she could not

bring herself to pull away her hand. She only gazed at him, her whole

figure one concentrated question, seeming to betray that she could not

bear the suspense another moment.

But he was still silent. When he had kissed her hand, he scanned the

whole room once more, and moving, as before, without haste went towards

Marya Timofyevna. It is very difficult to describe people's countenances

at certain moments. I remember, for instance, that Marya Timofyevna,

breathless with fear, rose to her feet to meet him and clasped her hands

before her, as though beseeching him. And at the same time I remember

the frantic ecstasy which almost distorted her face--an ecstasy almost

too great for any human being to bear. Perhaps both were there, both the

terror and the ecstasy. But I remember moving quickly towards her (I was

standing not far off), for I fancied she was going to faint.

"You should not be here," Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch said to her in

a caressing and melodious voice; and there was the light of an

extraordinary tenderness in his eyes. He stood before her in the most

respectful attitude, and every gesture showed sincere respect for her.

The poor girl faltered impulsively in a half-whisper.

"But may I... kneel down... to you now?"

"No, you can't do that."

He smiled at her magnificently, so that she too laughed joyfully at

once. In the same melodious voice, coaxing her tenderly as though she

were a child, he went on gravely.

"Only think that you are a girl, and that though I'm your devoted friend

I'm an outsider, not your husband, nor your father, nor your betrothed.

Give me your arm and let us go; I will take you to the carriage, and if

you will let me I will see you all the way home."

She listened, and bent her head as though meditating.

"Let's go," she said with a sigh, giving him her hand.

But at that point a slight mischance befell her. She must have turned

carelessly, resting on her lame leg, which was shorter than the other.

She fell sideways into the chair, and if the chair had not been there

would have fallen on to the floor. He instantly seized and supported

her, and holding her arm firmly in his, led her carefully and

sympathetically to the door. She was evidently mortified at having

fallen; she was overwhelmed, blushed, and was terribly abashed. Looking

dumbly on the ground, limping painfully, she hobbled after him, almost

hanging on his arm. So they went out. Liza, I saw, suddenly jumped up

from her chair for some reason as they were going out, and she followed

them with intent eyes till they reached the door. Then she sat down

again in silence, but there was a nervous twitching in her face, as

though she had touched a viper.

While this scene was taking place between Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch and

Marya Timofyevna every one was speechless with amazement; one could have

heard a fly; but as soon as they had gone out, every one began suddenly

talking.

VI

It was very little of it talk, however; it was mostly exclamation. I've

forgotten a little the order in which things happened, for a scene of

confusion followed. Stepan Trofimovitch uttered some exclamation in

French, clasping his hands, but Varvara Petrovna had no thought for him.

Even Mavriky Nikolaevitch muttered some rapid, jerky comment. But Pyotr

Stepanovitch was the most excited of all. He was trying desperately with

bold gesticulations to persuade Varvara Petrovna of something, but it

was a long time before I could make out what it was. He appealed

to Praskovya Ivanovna, and Lizaveta Nikolaevna too, even, in his

excitement, addressed a passing shout to his father--in fact he seemed

all over the room at once. Varvara Petrovna, flushing all over, sprang

up from her seat and cried to Praskovya Ivanovna:

"Did you hear what he said to her here just now, did you hear it?"

But the latter was incapable of replying. She could only mutter

something and wave her hand. The poor woman had troubles of her own to

think about. She kept turning her head towards Liza and was watching her

with unaccountable terror, but she didn't even dare to think of getting

up and going away until her daughter should get up. In the meantime the

captain wanted to slip away. That I noticed. There was no doubt that he

had been in a great panic from the instant that Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch

had made his appearance; but Pyotr Stepanovitch took him by the arm and

would not let him go.

"It is necessary, quite necessary," he pattered on to Varvara Petrovna,

still trying to persuade her. He stood facing her, as she was sitting

down again in her easy chair, and, I remember, was listening to him

eagerly; he had succeeded in securing her attention.

"It is necessary. You can see for yourself, Varvara Petrovna, that there

is a misunderstanding here, and much that is strange on the surface,

and yet the thing's as clear as daylight, and as simple as my finger. I

quite understand that no one has authorised me to tell the story, and

I dare say I look ridiculous putting myself forward. But in the first

place, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch attaches no sort of significance to

the matter himself, and, besides, there are incidents of which it is

difficult for a man to make up his mind to give an explanation himself.

And so it's absolutely necessary that it should be undertaken by a third

person, for whom it's easier to put some delicate points into words.

Believe me, Varvara Petrovna, that Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch is not at

all to blame for not immediately answering your question just now with

a full explanation, it's all a trivial affair. I've known him since his

Petersburg days. Besides, the whole story only does honour to Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch, if one must make use of that vague word 'honour.'"

"You mean to say that you were a witness of some incident which gave

rise... to this misunderstanding?" asked Varvara Petrovna.

"I witnessed it, and took part in it," Pyotr Stepanovitch hastened to

declare.

"If you'll give me your word that this will not wound Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch's delicacy in regard to his feeling for me, from whom

he ne-e-ver conceals anything... and if you are convinced also that your

doing this will be agreeable to him..."

"Certainly it will be agreeable, and for that reason I consider it a

particularly agreeable duty. I am convinced that he would beg me to do

it himself."

The intrusive desire of this gentleman, who seemed to have dropped on

us from heaven to tell stories about other people's affairs, was rather

strange and inconsistent with ordinary usage.

But he had caught Varvara Petrovna by touching on too painful a spot.

I did not know the man's character at that time, and still less his

designs.

"I am listening," Varvara Petrovna announced with a reserved and

cautious manner. She was rather painfully aware of her condescension.

"It's a short story; in fact if you like it's not a story at all," he

rattled on, "though a novelist might work it up into a novel in an idle

hour. It's rather an interesting little incident, Praskovya Ivanovna,

and I am sure that Lizaveta Nikolaevna will be interested to hear

it, because there are a great many things in it that are odd if not

wonderful. Five years ago, in Petersburg, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch

made the acquaintance of this gentleman, this very Mr. Lebyadkin who's

standing here with his mouth open, anxious, I think, to slip away at

once. Excuse me, Varvara Petrovna. I don't advise you to make your

escape though, you discharged clerk in the former commissariat

department; you see, I remember you very well. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch

and I know very well what you've been up to here, and, don't forget,

you'll have to answer for it. I ask your pardon once more, Varvara

Petrovna. In those days Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch used to call this

gentleman his Falstaff; that must be," he explained suddenly, "some old

burlesque character, at whom every one laughs, and who is willing to

let every one laugh at him, if only they'll pay him for it. Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch was leading at that time in Petersburg a life, so to

say, of mockery. I can't find another word to describe it, because he

is not a man who falls into disillusionment, and he disdained to be

occupied with work at that time. I'm only speaking of that period,

Varvara Petrovna. Lebyadkin had a sister, the woman who was sitting here

just now. The brother and sister hadn't a corner* of their own, but

were always quartering themselves on different people. He used to hang

about the arcades in the Gostiny Dvor, always wearing his old uniform,

and would stop the more respectable-looking passers-by, and everything

he got from them he'd spend in drink. His sister lived like the birds

of heaven. She'd help people in their 'corners,' and do jobs for them

on occasion. It was a regular Bedlam. I'll pass over the description

of this life in 'corners,' a life to which Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch had

taken,"

* In the poorer quarters of Russian towns a single room is often

let out to several families, each of which occupies a "corner."

"at that time, from eccentricity. I'm only talking of that period,

Varvara Petrovna; as for 'eccentricity,' that's his own expression. He

does not conceal much from me. Mlle. Lebyadkin, who was thrown in the

way of meeting Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch very often, at one time, was

fascinated by his appearance. He was, so to say, a diamond set in the

dirty background of her life. I am a poor hand at describing feelings,

so I'll pass them over; but some of that dirty lot took to jeering at

her once, and it made her sad. They always had laughed at her, but she

did not seem to notice it before. She wasn't quite right in her head

even then, but very different from what she is now. There's reason to

believe that in her childhood she received something like an education

through the kindness of a benevolent lady. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch

had never taken the slightest notice of her. He used to spend his time

chiefly in playing preference with a greasy old pack of cards for

stakes of a quarter-farthing with clerks. But once, when she was being

ill-treated, he went up (without inquiring into the cause) and seized

one of the clerks by the collar and flung him out of a second-floor

window. It was not a case of chivalrous indignation at the sight of

injured innocence; the whole operation took place in the midst of roars

of laughter, and the one who laughed loudest was Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch

himself. As it all ended without harm, they were reconciled and began

drinking punch. But the injured innocent herself did not forget it. Of

course it ended in her becoming completely crazy. I repeat I'm a poor

hand at describing feelings. But a delusion was the chief feature in

this case. And Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch aggravated that delusion as

though he did it on purpose. Instead of laughing at her he began all

at once treating Mlle. Lebyadkin with sudden respect. Kirillov, who was

there (a very original man, Varvara Petrovna, and very abrupt, you'll

see him perhaps one day, for he's here now), well, this Kirillov who,

as a rule, is perfectly silent, suddenly got hot, and said to Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch, I remember, that he treated the girl as though she were

a marquise, and that that was doing for her altogether. I must add that

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch had rather a respect for this Kirillov. What do

you suppose was the answer he gave him: 'You imagine, Mr. Kirillov, that

I am laughing at her. Get rid of that idea, I really do respect her,

for she's better than any of us.' And, do you know, he said it in such a

serious tone. Meanwhile, he hadn't really said a word to her for two or

three months, except 'good morning' and 'good-bye.' I remember, for I

was there, that she came at last to the point of looking on him almost

as her betrothed who dared not 'elope with her,' simply because he had

many enemies and family difficulties, or something of the sort.

There was a great deal of laughter about it. It ended in Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch's making provision for her when he had to come here, and

I believe he arranged to pay a considerable sum, three hundred roubles a

year, if not more, as a pension for her. In short it was all a caprice,

a fancy of a man prematurely weary on his side, perhaps--it may even

have been, as Kirillov says, a new experiment of a blasé man, with

the object of finding out what you can bring a crazy cripple to." (You

picked out on purpose, he said, the lowest creature, a cripple, forever

covered with disgrace and blows, knowing, too, that this creature was

dying of comic love for you, and set to work to mystify her completely

on purpose, simply to see what would come of it.) "Though, how is a man

so particularly to blame for the fancies of a crazy woman, to whom

he had hardly uttered two sentences the whole time. There are things,

Varvara Petrovna, of which it is not only impossible to speak sensibly,

but it's even nonsensical to begin speaking of them at all. Well,

eccentricity then, let it stand at that. Anyway, there's nothing worse

to be said than that; and yet now they've made this scandal out of it.

... I am to some extent aware, Varvara Petrovna, of what is happening

here."

The speaker suddenly broke off and was turning to Lebyadkin. But Varvara

Petrovna checked him. She was in a state of extreme exaltation.

"Have you finished?" she asked.

"Not yet; to complete my story I should have to ask this gentleman one

or two questions if you'll allow me... you'll see the point in a minute,

Varvara Petrovna."

"Enough, afterwards, leave it for the moment I beg you. Oh, I was quite

right to let you speak!"

"And note this, Varvara Petrovna," Pyotr Stepanovitch said hastily.

"Could Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch have explained all this just now in

answer to your question, which was perhaps too peremptory?"

"Oh, yes, it was."

"And wasn't I right in saying that in some cases it's much easier for a

third person to explain things than for the person interested?"

"Yes, yes... but in one thing you were mistaken, and, I see with regret,

are still mistaken."

"Really, what's that?"

"You see.... But won't you sit down, Pyotr Stepanovitch?"

"Oh, as you please. I am tired indeed. Thank you." He instantly moved up

an easy chair and turned it so that he had Varvara Petrovna on one

side and Praskovya Ivanovna at the table on the other, while he faced

Lebyadkin, from whom he did not take his eyes for one minute.

"You are mistaken in calling this eccentricity...."

"Oh, if it's only that...."

"No, no, no, wait a little," said Varvara Petrovna, who was obviously

about to say a good deal and to speak with enthusiasm. As soon as Pyotr

Stepanovitch noticed it, he was all attention.

"No, it was something higher than eccentricity, and I assure you,

something sacred even! A proud man who has suffered humiliation early

in life and reached the stage of 'mockery' as you so subtly called

it--Prince Harry, in fact, to use the capital nickname Stepan

Trofimovitch gave him then, which would have been perfectly correct if

it were not that he is more like Hamlet, to my thinking at least."

_"Et vous avez raison,"_ Stepan Trofimovitch pronounced, impressively and

with feeling.

"Thank you, Stepan Trofimovitch. I thank you particularly too for your

unvarying faith in Nicolas, in the loftiness of his soul and of his

destiny. That faith you have even strengthened in me when I was losing

heart."

_"Chère, chère."_ Stepan Trofimovitch was stepping forward, when he

checked himself, reflecting that it was dangerous to interrupt.

"And if Nicolas had always had at his side" (Varvara Petrovna almost

shouted) "a gentle Horatio, great in his humility--another excellent

expression of yours, Stepan Trofimovitch--he might long ago have been

saved from the sad and 'sudden demon of irony,' which has tormented him

all his life. ('The demon of irony' was a wonderful expression of yours

again, Stepan Trofimovitch.) But Nicolas has never had an Horatio or an

Ophelia. He had no one but his mother, and what can a mother do alone,

and in such circumstances? Do you know, Pyotr Stepanovitch, it's

perfectly comprehensible to me now that a being like Nicolas could be

found even in such filthy haunts as you have described. I can so clearly

picture now that 'mockery' of life. (A wonderfully subtle expression

of yours!) That insatiable thirst of contrast, that gloomy background

against which he stands out like a diamond, to use your comparison

again, Pyotr Stepanovitch. And then he meets there a creature

ill-treated by every one, crippled, half insane, and at the same time

perhaps filled with noble feelings."

"H'm.... Yes, perhaps."

"And after that you don't understand that he's not laughing at her like

every one. Oh, you people! You can't understand his defending her from

insult, treating her with respect 'like a marquise' (this Kirillov

must have an exceptionally deep understanding of men, though he didn't

understand Nicolas). It was just this contrast, if you like, that led to

the trouble. If the unhappy creature had been in different surroundings,

perhaps she would never have been brought to entertain such a frantic

delusion. Only a woman can understand it, Pyotr Stepanovitch, only a

woman. How sorry I am that you... not that you're not a woman, but that

you can't be one just for the moment so as to understand."

"You mean in the sense that the worse things are the better it is. I

understand, I understand, Varvara Petrovna. It's rather as it is in

religion; the harder life is for a man or the more crushed and poor the

people are, the more obstinately they dream of compensation in heaven;

and if a hundred thousand priests are at work at it too, inflaming

their delusion, and speculating on it, then... I understand you, Varvara

Petrovna, I assure you."

"That's not quite it; but tell me, ought Nicolas to have laughed at her

and have treated her as the other clerks, in order to extinguish the

delusion in this unhappy organism." (Why Varvara Petrovna used the word

organism I couldn't understand.) "Can you really refuse to recognise

the lofty compassion, the noble tremor of the whole organism with which

Nicolas answered Kirillov: 'I do not laugh at her.' A noble, sacred

answer!"

"Sublime," muttered Stepan Trofimovitch.

"And observe, too, that he is by no means so rich as you suppose. The

money is mine and not his, and he would take next to nothing from me

then."

"I understand, I understand all that, Varvara Petrovna," said Pyotr

Stepanovitch, with a movement of some impatience.

"Oh, it's my character! I recognise myself in Nicolas. I recognise that

youthfulness, that liability to violent, tempestuous impulses. And if

we ever come to be friends, Pyotr Stepanovitch, and, for my part, I

sincerely hope we may, especially as I am so deeply indebted to you,

then, perhaps you'll understand...."

"Oh, I assure you, I hope for it too," Pyotr Stepanovitch muttered

jerkily.

"You'll understand then the impulse which leads one in the blindness

of generous feeling to take up a man who is unworthy of one in every

respect, a man who utterly fails to understand one, who is ready to

torture one at every opportunity and, in contradiction to everything, to

exalt such a man into a sort of ideal, into a dream. To concentrate in

him all one's hopes, to bow down before him; to love him all one's life,

absolutely without knowing why--perhaps just because he was unworthy of

it.... Oh, how I've suffered all my life, Pyotr Stepanovitch!"

Stepan Trofimovitch, with a look of suffering on his face, began trying

to catch my eye, but I turned away in time.

"... And only lately, only lately--oh, how unjust I've been to Nicolas!

... You would not believe how they have been worrying me on all sides,

all, all, enemies, and rascals, and friends, friends perhaps more than

enemies. When the first contemptible anonymous letter was sent to me,

Pyotr Stepanovitch, you'll hardly believe it, but I had not strength

enough to treat all this wickedness with contempt.... I shall never,

never forgive myself for my weakness."

"I had heard something of anonymous letters here already," said Pyotr

Stepanovitch, growing suddenly more lively, "and I'll find out the

writers of them, you may be sure."

"But you can't imagine the intrigues that have been got up here. They

have even been pestering our poor Praskovya Ivanovna, and what reason

can they have for worrying her? I was quite unfair to you to-day

perhaps, my dear Praskovya Ivanovna," she added in a generous impulse of

kindliness, though not without a certain triumphant irony.

"Don't say any more, my dear," the other lady muttered reluctantly.

"To my thinking we'd better make an end of all this; too much has been

said."

And again she looked timidly towards Liza, but the latter was looking at

Pyotr Stepanovitch.

"And I intend now to adopt this poor unhappy creature, this insane

woman who has lost everything and kept only her heart," Varvara Petrovna

exclaimed suddenly. "It's a sacred duty I intend to carry out. I take

her under my protection from this day."

"And that will be a very good thing in one way," Pyotr Stepanovitch

cried, growing quite eager again. "Excuse me, I did not finish just now.

It's just the care of her I want to speak of. Would you believe it, that

as soon as Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch had gone (I'm beginning from where

I left off, Varvara Petrovna), this gentleman here, this Mr. Lebyadkin,

instantly imagined he had the right to dispose of the whole pension

that was provided for his sister. And he did dispose of it. I don't

know exactly how it had been arranged by Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch at that

time. But a year later, when he learned from abroad what had happened,

he was obliged to make other arrangements. Again, I don't know the

details; he'll tell you them himself. I only know that the interesting

young person was placed somewhere in a remote nunnery, in very

comfortable surroundings, but under friendly superintendence--you

understand? But what do you think Mr. Lebyadkin made up his mind to do?

He exerted himself to the utmost, to begin with, to find where

his source of income, that is his sister, was hidden. Only lately he

attained his object, took her from the nunnery, asserting some claim to

her, and brought her straight here. Here he doesn't feed her properly,

beats her, and bullies her. As soon as by some means he gets a

considerable sum from Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, he does nothing but

get drunk, and instead of gratitude ends by impudently defying Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch, making senseless demands, threatening him with

proceedings if the pension is not paid straight into his hands. So

he takes what is a voluntary gift from Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch as a

tax--can you imagine it? Mr. Lebyadkin, is that all true that I have

said just now?"

The captain, who had till that moment stood in silence looking down,

took two rapid steps forward and turned crimson.

"Pyotr Stepanovitch, you've treated me cruelly," he brought out

abruptly.

"Why cruelly? How? But allow us to discuss the question of cruelty or

gentleness later on. Now answer my first question; is it true all that I

have said or not? If you consider it's false you are at liberty to give

your own version at once."

"I... you know yourself, Pyotr Stepanovitch," the captain muttered, but

he could not go on and relapsed into silence. It must be observed that

Pyotr Stepanovitch was sitting in an easy chair with one leg crossed

over the other, while the captain stood before him in the most

respectful attitude.

Lebyadkin's hesitation seemed to annoy Pyotr Stepanovitch; a spasm of

anger distorted his face.

"Then you have a statement you want to make?" he said, looking subtly at

the captain. "Kindly speak. We're waiting for you."

"You know yourself Pyotr Stepanovitch, that I can't say anything."

"No, I don't know it. It's the first time I've heard it. Why can't you

speak?"

The captain was silent, with his eyes on the ground.

"Allow me to go, Pyotr Stepanovitch," he brought out resolutely.

"No, not till you answer my question: is it all true that I've said?"

"It is true," Lebyadkin brought out in a hollow voice, looking at his

tormentor. Drops of perspiration stood out on his forehead.

"Is it _all_ true?"

"It's all true."

"Have you nothing to add or to observe? If you think that we've been

unjust, say so; protest, state your grievance aloud."

"No, I think nothing."

"Did you threaten Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch lately?"

"It was... it was more drink than anything, Pyotr Stepanovitch." He

suddenly raised his head. "If family honour and undeserved disgrace

cry out among men then--then is a man to blame?" he roared suddenly,

forgetting himself as before.

"Are you sober now, Mr. Lebyadkin?"

Pyotr Stepanovitch looked at him penetratingly.

"I am... sober."

"What do you mean by family honour and undeserved disgrace?"

"I didn't mean anybody, anybody at all. I meant myself," the captain

said, collapsing again.

"You seem to be very much offended by what I've said about you and your

conduct? You are very irritable, Mr. Lebyadkin. But let me tell you I've

hardly begun yet what I've got to say about your conduct, in its real

sense. I'll begin to discuss your conduct in its real sense. I shall

begin, that may very well happen, but so far I've not begun, in a real

sense."

Lebyadkin started and stared wildly at Pyotr Stepanovitch.

"Pyotr Stepanovitch, I am just beginning to wake up."

"H'm! And it's I who have waked you up?"

"Yes, it's you who have waked me, Pyotr Stepanovitch; and I've been

asleep for the last four years with a storm-cloud hanging over me. May I

withdraw at last, Pyotr Stepanovitch?"

"Now you may, unless Varvara Petrovna thinks it necessary..."

But the latter dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

The captain bowed, took two steps towards the door, stopped suddenly,

laid his hand on his heart, tried to say something, did not say it, and

was moving quickly away. But in the doorway he came face to face with

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch; the latter stood aside. The captain shrank into

himself, as it were, before him, and stood as though frozen to the spot,

his eyes fixed upon him like a rabbit before a boa-constrictor. After

a little pause Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch waved him aside with a slight

motion of his hand, and walked into the drawing-room.

VII

He was cheerful and serene. Perhaps something very pleasant had happened

to him, of which we knew nothing as yet; but he seemed particularly

contented.

"Do you forgive me, Nicolas?" Varvara Petrovna hastened to say, and got

up suddenly to meet him.

But Nicolas positively laughed.

"Just as I thought," he said, good-humouredly and jestingly. "I see you

know all about it already. When I had gone from here I reflected in the

carriage that I ought at least to have told you the story instead of

going off like that. But when I remembered that Pyotr Stepanovitch was

still here, I thought no more of it."

As he spoke he took a cursory look round.

"Pyotr Stepanovitch told us an old Petersburg episode in the life of a

queer fellow," Varvara Petrovna rejoined enthusiastically--"a mad

and capricious fellow, though always lofty in his feelings, always

chivalrous and noble...."

"Chivalrous? You don't mean to say it's come to that," laughed Nicolas.

"However, I'm very grateful to Pyotr Stepanovitch for being in such a

hurry this time." He exchanged a rapid glance with the latter. "You must

know, maman, that Pyotr Stepanovitch is the universal peacemaker; that's

his part in life, his weakness, his hobby, and I particularly recommend

him to you from that point of view. I can guess what a yarn he's

been spinning. He's a great hand at spinning them; he has a perfect

record-office in his head. He's such a realist, you know, that he can't

tell a lie, and prefers truthfulness to effect... except, of course,

in special cases when effect is more important than truth." (As he said

this he was still looking about him.) "So, you see clearly, maman, that

it's not for you to ask my forgiveness, and if there's any craziness

about this affair it's my fault, and it proves that, when all's said and

done, I really am mad.... I must keep up my character here...."

Then he tenderly embraced his mother.

"In any case the subject has been fully discussed and is done with,"

he added, and there was a rather dry and resolute note in his voice.

Varvara Petrovna understood that note, but her exaltation was not

damped, quite the contrary.

"I didn't expect you for another month, Nicolas!"

"I will explain everything to you, maman, of course, but now..."

And he went towards Praskovya Ivanovna.

But she scarcely turned her head towards him, though she had been

completely overwhelmed by his first appearance. Now she had fresh

anxieties to think of; at the moment the captain had stumbled upon

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch as he was going out, Liza had suddenly begun

laughing--at first quietly and intermittently, but her laughter grew

more and more violent, louder and more conspicuous. She flushed crimson,

in striking contrast with her gloomy expression just before.

While Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was talking to Varvara Petrovna, she had

twice beckoned to Mavriky Nikolaevitch as though she wanted to whisper

something to him; but as soon as the young man bent down to her, she

instantly burst into laughter; so that it seemed as though it was at

poor Mavriky Nikolaevitch that she was laughing. She evidently tried to

control herself, however, and put her handkerchief to her lips.

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch turned to greet her with a most innocent and

open-hearted air.

"Please excuse me," she responded, speaking quickly. "You... you've seen

Mavriky Nikolaevitch of course.... My goodness, how inexcusably tall you

are, Mavriky Nikolaevitch!"

And laughter again, Mavriky Nikolaevitch was tall, but by no means

inexcusably so.

"Have... you been here long?" she muttered, restraining herself again,

genuinely embarrassed though her eyes were shining.

"More than two hours," answered Nicolas, looking at her intently. I may

remark that he was exceptionally reserved and courteous, but that apart

from his courtesy his expression was utterly indifferent, even listless.

"And where are you going to stay?"

"Here."

Varvara Petrovna, too, was watching Liza, but she was suddenly struck by

an idea.

"Where have you been all this time, Nicolas, more than two hours?" she

said, going up to him. "The train comes in at ten o'clock."

"I first took Pyotr Stepanovitch to Kirillov's. I came across Pyotr

Stepanovitch at Matveyev (three stations away), and we travelled

together."

"I had been waiting at Matveyev since sunrise," put in Pyotr

Stepanovitch. "The last carriages of our train ran off the rails in the

night, and we nearly had our legs broken."

"Your legs broken!" cried Liza. "Maman, maman, you and I meant to go to

Matveyev last week, we should have broken our legs too!"

"Heaven have mercy on us!" cried Praskovya Ivanovna, crossing herself.

"Maman, maman, dear maman, you mustn't be frightened if I break both my

legs. It may so easily happen to me; you say yourself that I ride so

recklessly every day. Mavriky Nikolaevitch, will you go about with me

when I'm lame?" She began giggling again. "If it does happen I won't let

anyone take me about but you, you can reckon on that.... Well, suppose I

break only one leg. Come, be polite, say you'll think it a pleasure."

"A pleasure to be crippled?" said Mavriky Nikolaevitch, frowning

gravely.

"But then you'll lead me about, only you and no one else."

"Even then it'll be you leading me about, Lizaveta Nikolaevna,"

murmured Mavriky Nikolaevitch, even more gravely.

"Why, he's trying to make a joke!" cried Liza, almost in dismay.

"Mavriky Nikolaevitch, don't you ever dare take to that! But what an

egoist you are! I am certain that, to your credit, you're slandering

yourself. It will be quite the contrary; from morning till night you'll

assure me that I have become more charming for having lost my leg.

There's one insurmountable difficulty--you're so fearfully tall, and

when I've lost my leg I shall be so very tiny. How will you be able to

take me on your arm; we shall look a strange couple!"

And she laughed hysterically. Her jests and insinuations were feeble,

but she was not capable of considering the effect she was producing.

"Hysterics!" Pyotr Stepanovitch whispered to me. "A glass of water, make

haste!"

He was right. A minute later every one was fussing about, water was

brought. Liza embraced her mother, kissed her warmly, wept on her

shoulder, then drawing back and looking her in the face she fell to

laughing again. The mother too began whimpering. Varvara Petrovna made

haste to carry them both off to her own rooms, going out by the same

door by which Darya Pavlovna had come to us. But they were not away

long, not more than four minutes.

I am trying to remember now every detail of these last moments of that

memorable morning. I remember that when we were left without the ladies

(except Darya Pavlovna, who had not moved from her seat), Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch made the round, greeting us all except Shatov, who still

sat in his corner, his head more bowed than ever. Stepan Trofimovitch

was beginning something very witty to Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, but the

latter turned away hurriedly to Darya Pavlovna. But before he reached

her, Pyotr Stepanovitch caught him and drew him away, almost violently,

towards the window, where he whispered something quickly to him,

apparently something very important to judge by the expression of

his face and the gestures that accompanied the whisper. Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch listened inattentively and listlessly with his official

smile, and at last even impatiently, and seemed all the time on the

point of breaking away. He moved away from the window just as the ladies

came back. Varvara Petrovna made Liza sit down in the same seat as

before, declaring that she must wait and rest another ten minutes; and

that the fresh air would perhaps be too much for her nerves at once.

She was looking after Liza with great devotion, and sat down beside

her. Pyotr Stepanovitch, now disengaged, skipped up to them at once,

and broke into a rapid and lively flow of conversation. At that point

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch at last went up to Darya Pavlovna with his

leisurely step. Dasha began stirring uneasily at his approach, and

jumped up quickly in evident embarrassment, flushing all over her face.

"I believe one may congratulate you... or is it too soon?" he brought

out with a peculiar line in his face.

Dasha made him some answer, but it was difficult to catch it.

"Forgive my indiscretion," he added, raising his voice, "but you know I

was expressly informed. Did you know about it?"

"Yes, I know that you were expressly informed."

"But I hope I have not done any harm by my congratulations," he laughed.

"And if Stepan Trofimovitch..."

"What, what's the congratulation about?" Pyotr Stepanovitch suddenly

skipped up to them. "What are you being congratulated about, Darya

Pavlovna? Bah! Surely that's not it? Your blush proves I've guessed

right. And indeed, what else does one congratulate our charming and

virtuous young ladies on? And what congratulations make them blush most

readily? Well, accept mine too, then, if I've guessed right! And pay

up. Do you remember when we were in Switzerland you bet you'd never be

married.... Oh, yes, apropos of Switzerland--what am I thinking about?

Only fancy, that's half what I came about, and I was almost forgetting

it. Tell me," he turned quickly to Stepan Trofimovitch, "when are you

going to Switzerland?"

"I... to Switzerland?" Stepan Trofimovitch replied, wondering and

confused.

"What? Aren't you going? Why you're getting married, too, you wrote?"

_"Pierre!"_ cried Stepan Trofimovitch.

"Well, why Pierre?... You see, if that'll please you, I've flown here to

announce that I'm not at all against it, since you were set on having

my opinion as quickly as possible; and if, indeed," he pattered on, "you

want to 'be saved,' as you wrote, beseeching my help in the same letter,

I am at your service again. Is it true that he is going to be married,

Varvara Petrovna?" He turned quickly to her. "I hope I'm not being

indiscreet; he writes himself that the whole town knows it and every

one's congratulating him, so that, to avoid it he only goes out at

night. I've got his letters in my pocket. But would you believe it,

Varvara Petrovna, I can't make head or tail of it? Just tell me one

thing, Stepan Trofimovitch, are you to be congratulated or are you to

be 'saved'? You wouldn't believe it; in one line he's despairing and in

the next he's most joyful. To begin with he begs my forgiveness; well,

of course, that's their way... though it must be said; fancy, the man's

only seen me twice in his life and then by accident. And suddenly now,

when he's going to be married for the third time, he imagines that

this is a breach of some sort of parental duty to me, and entreats me a

thousand miles away not to be angry and to allow him to. Please don't

be hurt, Stepan Trofimovitch. It's characteristic of your generation,

I take a broad view of it, and don't blame you. And let's admit it does

you honour and all the rest. But the point is again that I don't see the

point of it. There's something about some sort of 'sins in Switzerland.'

'I'm getting married,' he says, 'for my sins or on account of the 'sins'

of another,' or whatever it is--'sins' anyway. 'The girl,' says he, 'is

a pearl and a diamond,' and, well, of course, he's 'unworthy of her';

it's their way of talking; but on account of some sins or circumstances

'he is obliged to lead her to the altar, and go to Switzerland, and

therefore abandon everything and fly to save me.' Do you understand

anything of all that? However... however, I notice from the expression

of your faces"--(he turned about with the letter in his hand looking

with an innocent smile into the faces of the company)--"that, as usual,

I seem to have put my foot in it through my stupid way of being open,

or, as Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch says, 'being in a hurry.' I thought, of

course, that we were all friends here, that is, your friends, Stepan

Trofimovitch, your friends. I am really a stranger, and I see... and I

see that you all know something, and that just that something I don't

know." He still went on looking about him.

"So Stepan Trofimovitch wrote to you that he was getting married for

the 'sins of another committed in Switzerland,' and that you were to

fly here 'to save him,' in those very words?" said Varvara Petrovna,

addressing him suddenly. Her face was yellow and distorted, and her lips

were twitching.

"Well, you see, if there's anything I've not understood," said Pyotr

Stepanovitch, as though in alarm, talking more quickly than ever, "it's

his fault, of course, for writing like that. Here's the letter. You

know, Varvara Petrovna, his letters are endless and incessant, and,

you know, for the last two or three months there has been letter upon

letter, till, I must own, at last I sometimes didn't read them through.

Forgive me, Stepan Trofimovitch, for my foolish confession, but you must

admit, please, that, though you addressed them to me, you wrote them

more for posterity, so that you really can't mind.... Come, come, don't

be offended; we're friends, anyway. But this letter, Varvara Petrovna,

this letter, I did read through. These 'sins'--these 'sins of

another'--are probably some little sins of our own, and I don't mind

betting very innocent ones, though they have suddenly made us take a

fancy to work up a terrible story, with a glamour of the heroic about

it; and it's just for the sake of that glamour we've got it up. You

see there's something a little lame about our accounts--it must be

confessed, in the end. We've a great weakness for cards, you know....

But this is unnecessary, quite unnecessary, I'm sorry, I chatter too

much. But upon my word, Varvara Petrovna, he gave me a fright, and I

really was half prepared to save him. He really made me feel ashamed.

Did he expect me to hold a knife to his throat, or what? Am I such a

merciless creditor? He writes something here of a dowry.... But are you

really going to get married, Stepan Trofimovitch? That would be just

like you, to say a lot for the sake of talking. Ach, Varvara Petrovna,

I'm sure you must be blaming me now, and just for my way of talking

too...."

"On the contrary, on the contrary, I see that you are driven out of

all patience, and, no doubt you have had good reason," Varvara Petrovna

answered spitefully. She had listened with spiteful enjoyment to all the

"candid outbursts" of Pyotr Stepanovitch, who was obviously playing

a part (what part I did not know then, but it was unmistakable, and

over-acted indeed).

"On the contrary," she went on, "I'm only too grateful to you for

speaking; but for you I might not have known of it. My eyes are opened

for the first time for twenty years. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, you

said just now that you had been expressly informed; surely Stepan

Trofimovitch hasn't written to you in the same style?"

"I did get a very harmless and... and... very generous letter from

him...."

"You hesitate, you pick out your words. That's enough! Stepan

Trofimovitch, I request a great favour from you." She suddenly turned to

him with flashing eyes. "Kindly leave us at once, and never set foot in

my house again."

I must beg the reader to remember her recent "exaltation," which had not

yet passed. It's true that Stepan Trofimovitch was terribly to blame!

But what was a complete surprise to me then was the wonderful dignity of

his bearing under his son's "accusation," which he had never thought of

interrupting, and before Varvara Petrovna's "denunciation." How did he

come by such spirit? I only found out one thing, that he had certainly

been deeply wounded at his first meeting with Petrusha, by the way he

had embraced him. It was a deep and genuine grief; at least in his eyes

and to his heart. He had another grief at the same time, that is the

poignant consciousness of having acted contemptibly. He admitted this

to me afterwards with perfect openness. And you know real genuine sorrow

will sometimes make even a phenomenally frivolous, unstable man solid

and stoical; for a short time at any rate; what's more, even fools are

by genuine sorrow turned into wise men, also only for a short time of

course; it is characteristic of sorrow. And if so, what might not

happen with a man like Stepan Trofimovitch? It worked a complete

transformation--though also only for a time, of course.

He bowed with dignity to Varvara Petrovna without uttering a word (there

was nothing else left for him to do, indeed). He was on the point of

going out without a word, but could not refrain from approaching Darya

Pavlovna. She seemed to foresee that he would do so, for she began

speaking of her own accord herself, in utter dismay, as though in haste

to anticipate him.

"Please, Stepan Trofimovitch, for God's sake, don't say anything," she

began, speaking with haste and excitement, with a look of pain in her

face, hurriedly stretching out her hands to him. "Be sure that I still

respect you as much... and think just as highly of you, and... think

well of me too, Stepan Trofimovitch, that will mean a great deal to me,

a great deal...."

Stepan Trofimovitch made her a very, very low bow.

"It's for you to decide, Darya Pavlovna; you know that you are perfectly

free in the whole matter! You have been, and you are now, and you always

will be," Varvara Petrovna concluded impressively.

"Bah! Now I understand it all!" cried Pyotr Stepanovitch, slapping

himself on the forehead. "But... but what a position I am put in by

all this! Darya Pavlovna, please forgive me!... What do you call your

treatment of me, eh?" he said, addressing his father.

"Pierre, you might speak to me differently, mightn't you, my boy,"

Stepan Trofimovitch observed quite quietly.

"Don't cry out, please," said Pierre, with a wave of his hand. "Believe

me, it's all your sick old nerves, and crying out will do no good at

all. You'd better tell me instead, why didn't you warn me since you

might have supposed I should speak out at the first chance?"

Stepan Trofimovitch looked searchingly at him.

"Pierre, you who know so much of what goes on here, can you really have

known nothing of this business and have heard nothing about it?"

"What? What a set! So it's not enough to be a child in your old age,

you must be a spiteful child too! Varvara Petrovna, did you hear what he

said?"

There was a general outcry; but then suddenly an incident took place

which no one could have anticipated.

VIII

First of all I must mention that, for the last two or three minutes

Lizaveta Nikolaevna had seemed to be possessed by a new impulse; she

was whispering something hurriedly to her mother, and to Mavriky

Nikolaevitch, who bent down to listen. Her face was agitated, but at the

same time it had a look of resolution. At last she got up from her

seat in evident haste to go away, and hurried her mother whom Mavriky

Nikolaevitch began helping up from her low chair. But it seemed they

were not destined to get away without seeing everything to the end.

Shatov, who had been forgotten by every one in his corner (not far from

Lizaveta Nikolaevna), and who did not seem to know himself why he went

on sitting there, got up from his chair, and walked, without haste, with

resolute steps right across the room to Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, looking

him straight in the face. The latter noticed him approaching at some

distance, and faintly smiled, but when Shatov was close to him he left

off smiling.

When Shatov stood still facing him with his eyes fixed on him, and

without uttering a word, every one suddenly noticed it and there was a

general hush; Pyotr Stepanovitch was the last to cease speaking. Liza

and her mother were standing in the middle of the room. So passed five

seconds; the look of haughty astonishment was followed by one of anger

on Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch's face; he scowled....

And suddenly Shatov swung his long, heavy arm, and with all his might

struck him a blow in the face. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch staggered

violently.

Shatov struck the blow in a peculiar way, not at all after the

conventional fashion (if one may use such an expression). It was not a

slap with the palm of his hand, but a blow with the whole fist, and it

was a big, heavy, bony fist covered with red hairs and freckles. If the

blow had struck the nose, it would have broken it. But it hit him on the

cheek, and struck the left corner of the lip and the upper teeth, from

which blood streamed at once.

I believe there was a sudden scream, perhaps Varvara Petrovna

screamed--that I don't remember, because there was a dead hush again;

the whole scene did not last more than ten seconds, however.

Yet a very great deal happened in those seconds.

I must remind the reader again that Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch's was one

of those natures that know nothing of fear. At a duel he could face the

pistol of his opponent with indifference, and could take aim and kill

with brutal coolness. If anyone had slapped him in the face, I should

have expected him not to challenge his assailant to a duel, but to

murder him on the spot. He was just one of those characters, and would

have killed the man, knowing very well what he was doing, and without

losing his self-control. I fancy, indeed, that he never was liable to

those fits of blind rage which deprive a man of all power of reflection.

Even when overcome with intense anger, as he sometimes was, he was

always able to retain complete self-control, and therefore to realise

that he would certainly be sent to penal servitude for murdering a man

not in a duel; nevertheless, he'd have killed any one who insulted him,

and without the faintest hesitation.

I have been studying Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch of late, and through

special circumstances I know a great many facts about him now, at the

time I write. I should compare him, perhaps, with some gentlemen of the

past of whom legendary traditions are still perceived among us. We are

told, for instance, about the Decabrist L--n, that he was always seeking

for danger, that he revelled in the sensation, and that it had become

a craving of his nature; that in his youth he had rushed into duels for

nothing; that in Siberia he used to go to kill bears with nothing but

a knife; that in the Siberian forests he liked to meet with runaway

convicts, who are, I may observe in passing, more formidable than bears.

There is no doubt that these legendary gentlemen were capable of a

feeling of fear, and even to an extreme degree, perhaps, or they would

have been a great deal quieter, and a sense of danger would never have

become a physical craving with them. But the conquest of fear was

what fascinated them. The continual ecstasy of vanquishing and the

consciousness that no one could vanquish them was what attracted them.

The same L---n struggled with hunger for some time before he was sent

into exile, and toiled to earn his daily bread simply because he did not

care to comply with the requests of his rich father, which he considered

unjust. So his conception of struggle was many-sided, and he did not

prize stoicism and strength of character only in duels and bear-fights.

But many years have passed since those times, and the nervous,

exhausted, complex character of the men of to-day is incompatible with

the craving for those direct and unmixed sensations which were so sought

after by some restlessly active gentlemen of the good old days. Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch would, perhaps, have looked down on L--n, and have

called him a boastful cock-a-hoop coward; it's true he wouldn't have

expressed himself aloud. Stavrogin would have shot his opponent in a

duel, and would have faced a bear if necessary, and would have defended

himself from a brigand in the forest as successfully and as fearlessly

as L--n, but it would be without the slightest thrill of enjoyment,

languidly, listlessly, even with ennui and entirely from unpleasant

necessity. In anger, of course, there has been a progress compared with

L--n, even compared with Lermontov. There was perhaps more malignant

anger in Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch than in both put together, but it was a

calm, cold, if one may so say, _reasonable_ anger, and therefore the most

revolting and most terrible possible. I repeat again, I considered him

then, and I still consider him (now that everything is over), a man who,

if he received a slap in the face, or any equivalent insult, would be

certain to kill his assailant at once, on the spot, without challenging

him.

Yet, in the present case, what happened was something different and

amazing.

He had scarcely regained his balance after being almost knocked over in

this humiliating way, and the horrible, as it were, sodden, thud of

the blow in the face had scarcely died away in the room when he seized

Shatov by the shoulders with both hands, but at once, almost at the same

instant, pulled both hands away and clasped them behind his back. He did

not speak, but looked at Shatov, and turned as white as his shirt. But,

strange to say, the light in his eyes seemed to die out. Ten seconds

later his eyes looked cold, and I'm sure I'm not lying--calm. Only he

was terribly pale. Of course I don't know what was passing within the

man, I saw only his exterior. It seems to me that if a man should snatch

up a bar of red-hot iron and hold it tight in his hand to test his

fortitude, and after struggling for ten seconds with insufferable pain

end by overcoming it, such a man would, I fancy, go through something

like what Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was enduring during those ten seconds.

Shatov was the first to drop his eyes, and evidently because he was

unable to go on facing him; then he turned slowly and walked out of the

room, but with a very different step. He withdrew quietly, with peculiar

awkwardness, with his shoulders hunched, his head hanging as though

he were inwardly pondering something. I believe he was whispering

something. He made his way to the door carefully, without stumbling

against anything or knocking anything over; he opened the door a very

little way, and squeezed through almost sideways. As he went out his

shock of hair standing on end at the back of his head was particularly

noticeable.

Then first of all one fearful scream was heard. I saw Lizaveta

Nikolaevna seize her mother by the shoulder and Mavriky Nikolaevitch by

the arm and make two or three violent efforts to draw them out of the

room. But she suddenly uttered a shriek, and fell full length on the

floor, fainting. I can hear the thud of her head on the carpet to this

day.

PART II

CHAPTER I. NIGHT

I

EIGHT DAYS HAD PASSED. Now that it is all over and I am writing a record

of it, we know all about it; but at the time we knew nothing, and it was

natural that many things should seem strange to us: Stepan Trofimovitch

and I, anyway, shut ourselves up for the first part of the time, and

looked on with dismay from a distance. I did, indeed, go about here and

there, and, as before, brought him various items of news, without which

he could not exist.

I need hardly say that there were rumours of the most varied kind

going about the town in regard to the blow that Stavrogin had received,

Lizaveta Nikolaevna's fainting fit, and all that happened on that

Sunday. But what we wondered was, through whom the story had got about

so quickly and so accurately. Not one of the persons present had any

need to give away the secret of what had happened, or interest to serve

by doing so.

The servants had not been present. Lebyadkin was the only one who might

have chattered, not so much from spite, for he had gone out in great

alarm (and fear of an enemy destroys spite against him), but simply from

incontinence of speech. But Lebyadkin and his sister had disappeared next

day, and nothing could be heard of them. There was no trace of them at

Filipov's house, they had moved, no one knew where, and seemed to have

vanished. Shatov, of whom I wanted to inquire about Marya Timofyevna,

would not open his door, and I believe sat locked up in his room for the

whole of those eight days, even discontinuing his work in the town. He

would not see me. I went to see him on Tuesday and knocked at his door.

I got no answer, but being convinced by unmistakable evidence that he

was at home, I knocked a second time. Then, jumping up, apparently from

his bed, he strode to the door and shouted at the top of his voice:

"Shatov is not at home!"

With that I went away.

Stepan Trofimovitch and I, not without dismay at the boldness of the

supposition, though we tried to encourage one another, reached at last

a conclusion: we made up our mind that the only person who could be

responsible for spreading these rumours was Pyotr Stepanovitch, though

he himself not long after assured his father that he had found the story

on every one's lips, especially at the club, and that the governor

and his wife were familiar with every detail of it. What is even more

remarkable is that the next day, Monday evening, I met Liputin, and

he knew every word that had been passed, so that he must have heard it

first-hand. Many of the ladies (and some of the leading ones) were

very inquisitive about the "mysterious cripple," as they called Marya

Timofyevna. There were some, indeed, who were anxious to see her and

make her acquaintance, so the intervention of the persons who had

been in such haste to conceal the Lebyadkins was timely. But Lizaveta

Nikolaevna's fainting certainly took the foremost place in the story,

and "all society" was interested, if only because it directly concerned

Yulia Mihailovna, as the kinswoman and patroness of the young lady.

And what was there they didn't say! What increased the gossip was the

mysterious position of affairs; both houses were obstinately closed;

Lizaveta Nikolaevna, so they said, was in bed with brain fever. The

same thing was asserted of Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, with the revolting

addition of a tooth knocked out and a swollen face. It was even

whispered in corners that there would soon be murder among us, that

Stavrogin was not the man to put up with such an insult, and that he

would kill Shatov, but with the secrecy of a Corsican vendetta. People

liked this idea, but the majority of our young people listened with

contempt, and with an air of the most nonchalant indifference, which

was, of course, assumed. The old hostility to Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch

in the town was in general strikingly manifest. Even sober-minded people

were eager to throw blame on him though they could not have said

for what. It was whispered that he had ruined Lizaveta Nikolaevna's

reputation, and that there had been an intrigue between them in

Switzerland. Cautious people, of course, restrained themselves, but

all listened with relish. There were other things said, though not

in public, but in private, on rare occasions and almost in secret,

extremely strange things, to which I only refer to warn my readers of

them with a view to the later events of my story. Some people, with

knitted brows, said, God knows on what foundation, that Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch had some special business in our province, that he

had, through Count K., been brought into touch with exalted circles in

Petersburg, that he was even, perhaps, in government service, and might

almost be said to have been furnished with some sort of commission from

someone. When very sober-minded and sensible people smiled at this

rumour, observing very reasonably that a man always mixed up with

scandals, and who was beginning his career among us with a swollen face

did not look like a government official, they were told in a whisper

that he was employed not in the official, but, so to say, the

confidential service, and that in such cases it was essential to be as

little like an official as possible. This remark produced a sensation;

we knew that the Zemstvo of our province was the object of marked

attention in the capital. I repeat, these were only flitting rumours

that disappeared for a time when Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch first came

among us. But I may observe that many of the rumours were partly due to

a few brief but malicious words, vaguely and disconnectedly dropped at

the club by a gentleman who had lately returned from Petersburg. This

was a retired captain in the guards, Artemy Pavlovitch Gaganov. He was

a very large landowner in our province and district, a man used to the

society of Petersburg, and a son of the late Pavel Pavlovitch Gaganov,

the venerable old man with whom Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch had, over four

years before, had the extraordinarily coarse and sudden encounter which

I have described already in the beginning of my story.

It immediately became known to every one that Yulia Mihailovna had

made a special call on Varvara Petrovna, and had been informed at the

entrance: "Her honour was too unwell to see visitors." It was known,

too, that Yulia Mihailovna sent a message two days later to inquire

after Varvara Petrovna's health. At last she began "defending" Varvara

Petrovna everywhere, of course only in the loftiest sense, that is, in

the vaguest possible way. She listened coldly and sternly to the hurried

remarks made at first about the scene on Sunday, so that during the

later days they were not renewed in her presence. So that the belief

gained ground everywhere that Yulia Mihailovna knew not only the whole

of the mysterious story but all its secret significance to the smallest

detail, and not as an outsider, but as one taking part in it. I may

observe, by the way, that she was already gradually beginning to gain

that exalted influence among us for which she was so eager and which

she was certainly struggling to win, and was already beginning to see

herself "surrounded by a circle." A section of society recognised her

practical sense and tact... but of that later. Her patronage partly

explained Pyotr Stepanovitch's rapid success in our society--a success

with which Stepan Trofimovitch was particularly impressed at the time.

We possibly exaggerated it. To begin with, Pyotr Stepanovitch seemed to

make acquaintance almost instantly with the whole town within the first

four days of his arrival. He only arrived on Sunday; and on Tuesday

I saw him in a carriage with Artemy Pavlovitch Gaganov, a man who was

proud, irritable, and supercilious, in spite of his good breeding,

and who was not easy to get on with. At the governor's, too, Pyotr

Stepanovitch met with a warm welcome, so much so that he was at once

on an intimate footing, like a young friend, treated, so to say,

affectionately. He dined with Yulia Mihailovna almost every day. He had

made her acquaintance in Switzerland, but there was certainly something

curious about the rapidity of his success in the governor's house. In

any case he was reputed, whether truly or not, to have been at one

time a revolutionist abroad, he had had something to do with some

publications and some congresses abroad, "which one can prove from the

newspapers," to quote the malicious remark of Alyosha Telyatnikov, who

had also been once a young friend affectionately treated in the house of

the late governor, but was now, alas, a clerk on the retired list. But

the fact was unmistakable: the former revolutionist, far from being

hindered from returning to his beloved Fatherland, seemed almost to have

been encouraged to do so, so perhaps there was nothing in it. Liputin

whispered to me once that there were rumours that Pyotr Stepanovitch had

once professed himself penitent, and on his return had been pardoned on

mentioning certain names and so, perhaps, had succeeded in expiating his

offence, by promising to be of use to the government in the future. I

repeated these malignant phrases to Stepan Trofimovitch, and although

the latter was in such a state that he was hardly capable of reflection,

he pondered profoundly. It turned out later that Pyotr Stepanovitch had

come to us with a very influential letter of recommendation, that

he had, at any rate, brought one to the governor's wife from a very

important old lady in Petersburg, whose husband was one of the most

distinguished old dignitaries in the capital. This old lady, who was

Yulia Mihailovna's godmother, mentioned in her letter that Count K. knew

Pyotr Stepanovitch very well through Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, made much

of him, and thought him "a very excellent young man in spite of his

former errors." Yulia Mihailovna set the greatest value on her

relations with the "higher spheres," which were few and maintained with

difficulty, and was, no doubt, pleased to get the old lady's letter, but

still there was something peculiar about it. She even forced her husband

upon a familiar footing with Pyotr Stepanovitch, so much so that Mr. von

Lembke complained of it... but of that, too, later. I may mention,

too, that the great author was also favourably disposed to Pyotr

Stepanovitch, and at once invited him to go and see him. Such alacrity

on the part of a man so puffed up with conceit stung Stepan Trofimovitch

more painfully than anything; but I put a different interpretation on

it. In inviting a nihilist to see him, Mr. Karmazinov, no doubt, had in

view his relations with the progressives of the younger generation

in both capitals. The great author trembled nervously before the

revolutionary youth of Russia, and imagining, in his ignorance, that the

future lay in their hands, fawned upon them in a despicable way, chiefly

because they paid no attention to him whatever.

II

Pyotr Stepanovitch ran round to see his father twice, but unfortunately

I was absent on both occasions. He visited him for the first time

only on Wednesday, that is, not till the fourth day after their first

meeting, and then only on business. Their difficulties over the property

were settled, by the way, without fuss or publicity. Varvara Petrovna

took it all on herself, and paid all that was owing, taking over the

land, of course, and only informed Stepan Trofimovitch that it was all

settled and her butler, Alexey Yegorytch, was, by her authorisation,

bringing him something to sign. This Stepan Trofimovitch did, in

silence, with extreme dignity. Apropos of his dignity, I may mention

that I hardly recognised my old friend during those days. He behaved

as he had never done before; became amazingly taciturn and had not even

written one letter to Varvara Petrovna since Sunday, which seemed to me

almost a miracle. What's more, he had become quite calm. He had fastened

upon a final and decisive idea which gave him tranquillity. That was

evident. He had hit upon this idea, and sat still, expecting something.

At first, however, he was ill, especially on Monday. He had an attack

of his summer cholera. He could not remain all that time without news

either; but as soon as I departed from the statement of facts, and began

discussing the case in itself, and formulated any theory, he at once

gesticulated to me to stop. But both his interviews with his son had a

distressing effect on him, though they did not shake his determination.

After each interview he spent the whole day lying on the sofa with a

handkerchief soaked in vinegar on his head. But he continued to remain

calm in the deepest sense.

Sometimes, however, he did not hinder my speaking. Sometimes, too, it

seemed to me that the mysterious determination he had taken seemed to

be failing him and he appeared to be struggling with a new, seductive

stream of ideas. That was only at moments, but I made a note of it. I

suspected that he was longing to assert himself again, to come forth

from his seclusion, to show fight, to struggle to the last.

"_Cher,_ I could crush them!" broke from him on Thursday evening after his

second interview with Pyotr Stepanovitch, when he lay stretched on the

sofa with his head wrapped in a towel.

Till that moment he had not uttered one word all day.

_"Fils, fils, cher,"_ and so on, "I agree all those expressions are

nonsense, kitchen talk, and so be it. I see it for myself. I never gave

him food or drink, I sent him a tiny baby from Berlin to X province by

post, and all that, I admit it.... 'You gave me neither food nor drink,

and sent me by post,' he says, 'and what's more you've robbed me here.'"

"'But you unhappy boy,' I cried to him, 'my heart has been aching for

you all my life; though I did send you by post.' _Il rit._"

"But I admit it. I admit it, granted it was by post," he concluded,

almost in delirium.

_"Passons,"_ he began again, five minutes later. "I don't understand

Turgenev. That Bazarov of his is a fictitious figure, it does not exist

anywhere. The fellows themselves were the first to disown him as unlike

anyone. That Bazarov is a sort of indistinct mixture of Nozdryov and

Byron, _c'est le mot._ Look at them attentively: they caper about and

squeal with joy like puppies in the sun. They are happy, they are

victorious! What is there of Byron in them!... and with that, such

ordinariness! What a low-bred, irritable vanity! What an abject craving

to _faire du bruit autour de son nom,_ without noticing that _son

nom...._ Oh, it's a caricature! 'Surely,' I cried to him, 'you don't want

to offer yourself just as you are as a substitute for Christ?' _Il rit.

Il rit beaucoup. Il rit trop._ He has a strange smile. His mother had not

a smile like that. _Il rit toujours._"

Silence followed again.

"They are cunning; they were acting in collusion on Sunday," he blurted

out suddenly....

"Oh, not a doubt of it," I cried, pricking up my ears. "It was a got-up

thing and it was too transparent, and so badly acted."

"I don't mean that. Do you know that it was all too transparent

on purpose, that those... who had to, might understand it. Do you

understand that?"

"I don't understand."

"_Tant mieux; passons._ I am very irritable to-day."

"But why have you been arguing with him, Stepan Trofimovitch?" I asked

him reproachfully.

"_Je voulais convertir_--you'll laugh of course--_cette pauvre_ auntie,

_elle entendra de belles choses!_ Oh, my dear boy, would you believe it.

I felt like a patriot. I always recognised that I was a Russian,

however... a genuine Russian must be like you and me. _Il y a là dedans

quelque chose d'aveugle et de louche._"

"Not a doubt of it," I assented.

"My dear, the real truth always sounds improbable, do you know that? To

make truth sound probable you must always mix in some falsehood with it.

Men have always done so. Perhaps there's something in it that passes our

understanding. What do you think: is there something we don't understand

in that triumphant squeal? I should like to think there was. I should

like to think so."

I did not speak. He, too, was silent for a long time. "They say that

French cleverness..." he babbled suddenly, as though in a fever...

"that's false, it always has been. Why libel French cleverness? It's

simply Russian indolence, our degrading impotence to produce ideas, our

revolting parasitism in the rank of nations. _Ils sont tout simplement

des paresseux,_ and not French cleverness. Oh, the Russians ought to be

extirpated for the good of humanity, like noxious parasites! We've been

striving for something utterly, utterly different. I can make nothing of

it. I have given up understanding. 'Do you understand,' I cried to him,

'that if you have the guillotine in the foreground of your programme and

are so enthusiastic about it too, it's simply because nothing's easier

than cutting off heads, and nothing's harder than to have an idea. _Vous

êtes des paresseux! Votre drapeau est un guenille, une impuissance._ It's

those carts, or, what was it?... the rumble of the carts carrying bread

to humanity being more important than the Sistine Madonna, or, what's

the saying?... _une bêtise dans ce genre._ Don't you understand, don't you

understand,' I said to him, 'that unhappiness is just as necessary to

man as happiness.' _Il rit._ 'All you do is to make a _bon mot,_' he

said, 'with your limbs snug on a velvet sofa.'... (He used a coarser

expression.) And this habit of addressing a father so familiarly is very

nice when father and son are on good terms, but what do you think of it

when they are abusing one another?"

We were silent again for a minute.

_"Cher,"_ he concluded at last, getting up quickly, "do you know this is

bound to end in something?"

"Of course," said I.

"_Vous ne comprenez pas. Passons._ But... usually in our world things come

to nothing, but this will end in something; it's bound to, it's bound

to!"

He got up, and walked across the room in violent emotion, and coming

back to the sofa sank on to it exhausted.

On Friday morning, Pyotr Stepanovitch went off somewhere in the

neighbourhood, and remained away till Monday. I heard of his departure

from Liputin, and in the course of conversation I learned that the

Lebyadkins, brother and sister, had moved to the riverside quarter.

"I moved them," he added, and, dropping the Lebyadkins, he suddenly

announced to me that Lizaveta Nikolaevna was going to marry Mavriky

Nikolaevitch, that, although it had not been announced, the engagement

was a settled thing. Next day I met Lizaveta Nikolaevna out riding with

Mavriky Nikolaevitch; she was out for the first time after her illness.

She beamed at me from the distance, laughed, and nodded in a very

friendly way. I told all this to Stepan Trofimovitch; he paid no

attention, except to the news about the Lebyadkins.

And now, having described our enigmatic position throughout those eight

days during which we knew nothing, I will pass on to the description of

the succeeding incidents of my chronicle, writing, so to say, with full

knowledge, and describing things as they became known afterwards, and

are clearly seen to-day. I will begin with the eighth day after that

Sunday, that is, the Monday evening--for in reality a "new scandal"

began with that evening.

III

It was seven o'clock in the evening. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was sitting

alone in his study--the room he had been fond of in old days. It was

lofty, carpeted with rugs, and contained somewhat heavy old-fashioned

furniture. He was sitting on the sofa in the corner, dressed as though

to go out, though he did not seem to be intending to do so. On the table

before him stood a lamp with a shade. The sides and corners of the big

room were left in shadow. His eyes looked dreamy and concentrated,

not altogether tranquil; his face looked tired and had grown a little

thinner. He really was ill with a swollen face; but the story of a tooth

having been knocked out was an exaggeration. One had been loosened, but

it had grown into its place again: he had had a cut on the inner side of

the upper lip, but that, too, had healed. The swelling on his face had

lasted all the week simply because the invalid would not have a doctor,

and instead of having the swelling lanced had waited for it to go down.

He would not hear of a doctor, and would scarcely allow even his mother

to come near him, and then only for a moment, once a day, and only at

dusk, after it was dark and before lights had been brought in. He did

not receive Pyotr Stepanovitch either, though the latter ran round to

Varvara Petrovna's two or three times a day so long as he remained in

the town. And now, at last, returning on the Monday morning after his

three days' absence, Pyotr Stepanovitch made a circuit of the town,

and, after dining at Yulia Mihailovna's, came at last in the evening to

Varvara Petrovna, who was impatiently expecting him. The interdict had

been removed, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was "at home." Varvara Petrovna

herself led the visitor to the door of the study; she had long looked

forward to their meeting, and Pyotr Stepanovitch had promised to run

to her and repeat what passed. She knocked timidly at Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch's door, and getting no answer ventured to open the door

a couple of inches.

"Nicolas, may I bring Pyotr Stepanovitch in to see you?" she asked, in a

soft and restrained voice, trying to make out her son's face behind the

lamp.

"You can--you can, of course you can," Pyotr Stepanovitch himself cried

out, loudly and gaily. He opened the door with his hand and went in.

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch had not heard the knock at the door, and only

caught his mother's timid question, and had not had time to answer it.

Before him, at that moment, there lay a letter he had just read over,

which he was pondering deeply. He started, hearing Pyotr Stepanovitch's

sudden outburst, and hurriedly put the letter under a paper-weight,

but did not quite succeed; a corner of the letter and almost the whole

envelope showed.

"I called out on purpose that you might be prepared," Pyotr Stepanovitch

said hurriedly, with surprising naïveté, running up to the table, and

instantly staring at the corner of the letter, which peeped out from

beneath the paper-weight.

"And no doubt you had time to see how I hid the letter I had just

received, under the paper-weight," said Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch calmly,

without moving from his place.

"A letter? Bless you and your letters, what are they to do with me?"

cried the visitor. "But... what does matter..." he whispered again,

turning to the door, which was by now closed, and nodding his head in

that direction.

"She never listens," Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch observed coldly.

"What if she did overhear?" cried Pyotr Stepanovitch, raising his voice

cheerfully, and settling down in an arm-chair. "I've nothing against

that, only I've come here now to speak to you alone. Well, at last I've

succeeded in getting at you. First of all, how are you? I see you're

getting on splendidly. To-morrow you'll show yourself again--eh?"

"Perhaps."

"Set their minds at rest. Set mine at rest at last." He gesticulated

violently with a jocose and amiable air. "If only you knew what nonsense

I've had to talk to them. You know, though." He laughed.

"I don't know everything. I only heard from my mother that you've

been... very active."

"Oh, well, I've said nothing definite," Pyotr Stepanovitch flared up

at once, as though defending himself from an awful attack. "I simply

trotted out Shatov's wife; you know, that is, the rumours of your

liaison in Paris, which accounted, of course, for what happened on

Sunday. You're not angry?"

"I'm sure you've done your best."

"Oh, that's just what I was afraid of. Though what does that mean, 'done

your best'? That's a reproach, isn't it? You always go straight for

things, though.... What I was most afraid of, as I came here, was that

you wouldn't go straight for the point."

"I don't want to go straight for anything," said Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch

with some irritation. But he laughed at once.

"I didn't mean that, I didn't mean that, don't make a mistake," cried

Pyotr Stepanovitch, waving his hands, rattling his words out like peas,

and at once relieved at his companion's irritability. "I'm not going to

worry you with _our_ business, especially in your present position. I've

only come about Sunday's affair, and only to arrange the most necessary

steps, because, you see, it's impossible. I've come with the frankest

explanations which I stand in more need of than you--so much for your

vanity, but at the same time it's true. I've come to be open with you

from this time forward."

"Then you have not been open with me before?"

"You know that yourself. I've been cunning with you many times... you

smile; I'm very glad of that smile as a prelude to our explanation. I

provoked that smile on purpose by using the word 'cunning,' so that you

might get cross directly at my daring to think I could be cunning, so

that I might have a chance of explaining myself at once. You see, you

see how open I have become now! Well, do you care to listen?"

In the expression of Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch's face, which was

contemptuously composed, and even ironical, in spite of his visitor's

obvious desire to irritate him by the insolence of his premeditated

and intentionally coarse naïvetés, there was, at last, a look of rather

uneasy curiosity.

"Listen," said Pyotr Stepanovitch, wriggling more than ever, "when I set

off to come here, I mean here in the large sense, to this town, ten days

ago, I made up my mind, of course, to assume a character. It would

have been best to have done without anything, to have kept one's

own character, wouldn't it? There is no better dodge than one's own

character, because no one believes in it. I meant, I must own, to assume

the part of a fool, because it is easier to be a fool than to act

one's own character; but as a fool is after all something extreme,

and anything extreme excites curiosity, I ended by sticking to my own

character. And what is my own character? The golden mean: neither wise

nor foolish, rather stupid, and dropped from the moon, as sensible

people say here, isn't that it?"

"Perhaps it is," said Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, with a faint smile.

"Ah, you agree--I'm very glad; I knew beforehand that it was your own

opinion.... You needn't trouble, I am not annoyed, and I didn't describe

myself in that way to get a flattering contradiction from you--no,

you're not stupid, you're clever.... Ah! you're smiling again!... I've

blundered once more. You would not have said 'you're clever,' granted;

I'll let it pass anyway. _Passons,_ as papa says, and, in parenthesis,

don't be vexed with my verbosity. By the way, I always say a lot, that

is, use a great many words and talk very fast, and I never speak well.

And why do I use so many words, and why do I never speak well? Because

I don't know how to speak. People who can speak well, speak briefly. So

that I am stupid, am I not? But as this gift of stupidity is natural

to me, why shouldn't I make skilful use of it? And I do make use of it.

It's true that as I came here, I did think, at first, of being silent.

But you know silence is a great talent, and therefore incongruous for

me, and secondly silence would be risky, anyway. So I made up my mind

finally that it would be best to talk, but to talk stupidly--that is, to

talk and talk and talk--to be in a tremendous hurry to explain things,

and in the end to get muddled in my own explanations, so that my

listener would walk away without hearing the end, with a shrug, or,

better still, with a curse. You succeed straight off in persuading them

of your simplicity, in boring them and in being incomprehensible--three

advantages all at once! Do you suppose anybody will suspect you of

mysterious designs after that? Why, every one of them would take it as

a personal affront if anyone were to say I had secret designs. And I

sometimes amuse them too, and that's priceless. Why, they're ready to

forgive me everything now, just because the clever fellow who used

to publish manifestoes out there turns out to be stupider than

themselves--that's so, isn't it? From your smile I see you approve."

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was not smiling at all, however.

On the contrary, he was listening with a frown and some impatience.

"Eh? What? I believe you said 'no matter.'"

Pyotr Stepanovitch rattled on. (Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch had said nothing

at all.) "Of course, of course. I assure you I'm not here to compromise

you by my company, by claiming you as my comrade. But do you know you're

horribly captious to-day; I ran in to you with a light and open heart,

and you seem to be laying up every word I say against me. I assure you

I'm not going to begin about anything shocking to-day, I give you my

word, and I agree beforehand to all your conditions."

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was obstinately silent.

"Eh? What? Did you say something? I see, I see that I've made a blunder

again, it seems; you've not suggested conditions and you're not going

to; I believe you, I believe you; well, you can set your mind at rest;

I know, of course, that it's not worth while for me to suggest them, is

it? I'll answer for you beforehand, and--just from stupidity, of course;

stupidity again.... You're laughing? Eh? What?"

"Nothing," Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch laughed at last. "I just remembered

that I really did call you stupid, but you weren't there then, so they

must have repeated it.... I would ask you to make haste and come to the

point."

"Why, but I am at the point! I am talking about Sunday," babbled Pyotr

Stepanovitch. "Why, what was I on Sunday? What would you call it? Just

fussy, mediocre stupidity, and in the stupidest way I took possession of

the conversation by force. But they forgave me everything, first because

I dropped from the moon, that seems to be settled here, now, by every

one; and, secondly, because I told them a pretty little story, and got

you all out of a scrape, didn't they, didn't they?"

"That is, you told your story so as to leave them in doubt and suggest

some compact and collusion between us, when there was no collusion and

I'd not asked you to do anything."

"Just so, just so!" Pyotr Stepanovitch caught him up, apparently

delighted. "That's just what I did do, for I wanted you to see that I

implied it; I exerted myself chiefly for your sake, for I caught you and

wanted to compromise you, above all I wanted to find out how far you're

afraid."

"It would be interesting to know why you are so open now?"

"Don't be angry, don't be angry, don't glare at me.... You're not,

though. You wonder why I am so open? Why, just because it's all changed

now; of course, it's over, buried under the sand. I've suddenly changed

my ideas about you. The old way is closed; now I shall never compromise

you in the old way, it will be in a new way now."

"You've changed your tactics?"

"There are no tactics. Now it's for you to decide in everything, that

is, if you want to, say yes, and if you want to, say no. There you have

my new tactics. And I won't say a word about our cause till you bid me

yourself. You laugh? Laugh away. I'm laughing myself. But I'm in earnest

now, in earnest, in earnest, though a man who is in such a hurry is

stupid, isn't he? Never mind, I may be stupid, but I'm in earnest, in

earnest."

He really was speaking in earnest in quite a different tone, and with a

peculiar excitement, so that Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch looked at him with

curiosity.

"You say you've changed your ideas about me?" he asked.

"I changed my ideas about you at the moment when you drew your hands

back after Shatov's attack, and, that's enough, that's enough, no

questions, please, I'll say nothing more now."

He jumped up, waving his hands as though waving off questions. But as

there were no questions, and he had no reason to go away, he sank into

an arm-chair again, somewhat reassured.

"By the way, in parenthesis," he rattled on at once, "some people here

are babbling that you'll kill him, and taking bets about it, so that

Lembke positively thought of setting the police on, but Yulia Mihailovna

forbade it.... But enough about that, quite enough, I only spoke of it

to let you know. By the way, I moved the Lebyadkins the same day, you

know; did you get my note with their address?"

"I received it at the time."

"I didn't do that by way of 'stupidity.' I did it genuinely, to serve

you. If it was stupid, anyway, it was done in good faith."

"Oh, all right, perhaps it was necessary...." said Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch dreamily, "only don't write any more letters to me, I

beg you."

"Impossible to avoid it. It was only one."

"So Liputin knows?"

"Impossible to help it: but Liputin, you know yourself, dare not... By

the way, you ought to meet our fellows, that is, _the_ fellows not _our_

fellows, or you'll be finding fault again. Don't disturb yourself,

not just now, but sometime. Just now it's raining. I'll let them know,

they'll meet together, and we'll go in the evening. They're waiting,

with their mouths open like young crows in a nest, to see what present

we've brought them. They're a hot-headed lot. They've brought out

leaflets, they're on the point of quarrelling. Virginsky is a universal

humanity man, Liputin is a Fourierist with a marked inclination for

police work; a man, I assure you, who is precious from one point of

view, though he requires strict supervision in all others; and, last of

all, that fellow with the long ears, he'll read an account of his own

system. And do you know, they're offended at my treating them casually,

and throwing cold water over them, but we certainly must meet."

"You've made me out some sort of chief?" Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch dropped

as carelessly as possible.

Pyotr Stepanovitch looked quickly at him.

"By the way," he interposed, in haste to change the subject, as though

he had not heard. "I've been here two or three times, you know, to see

her excellency, Varvara Petrovna, and I have been obliged to say a great

deal too."

"So I imagine."

"No, don't imagine, I've simply told her that you won't kill him, well,

and other sweet things. And only fancy; the very next day she knew I'd

moved Marya Timofyevna beyond the river. Was it you told her?"

"I never dreamed of it!"

"I knew it wasn't you. Who else could it be? It's interesting."

"Liputin, of course."

"N-no, not Liputin," muttered Pyotr Stepanovitch, frowning; "I'll find

out who. It's more like Shatov.... That's nonsense though. Let's leave

that! Though it's awfully important.... By the way, I kept expecting

that your mother would suddenly burst out with the great question....

Ach! yes, she was horribly glum at first, but suddenly, when I came

to-day, she was beaming all over, what does that mean?"

"It's because I promised her to-day that within five days I'll be

engaged to Lizaveta Nikolaevna," Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch said with

surprising openness.

"Oh!... Yes, of course," faltered Pyotr Stepanovitch, seeming

disconcerted. "There are rumours of her engagement, you know. It's true,

too. But you're right, she'd run from under the wedding crown, you've

only to call to her. You're not angry at my saying so?"

"No, I'm not angry."

"I notice it's awfully hard to make you angry to-day, and I begin to be

afraid of you. I'm awfully curious to know how you'll appear to-morrow.

I expect you've got a lot of things ready. You're not angry at my saying

so?"

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch made no answer at all, which completed Pyotr

Stepanovitch's irritation.

"By the way, did you say that in earnest to your mother, about Lizaveta

Nikolaevna?" he asked.

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch looked coldly at him.

"Oh, I understand, it was only to soothe her, of course."

"And if it were in earnest?" Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch asked firmly.

"Oh, God bless you then, as they say in such cases. It won't hinder the

cause (you see, I don't say 'our,' you don't like the word 'our') and I

... well, I ... am at your service, as you know."

"You think so?"

"I think nothing--nothing," Pyotr Stepanovitch hurriedly declared,

laughing, "because I know you consider what you're about beforehand for

yourself, and everything with you has been thought out. I only mean that

I am seriously at your service, always and everywhere, and in every sort

of circumstance, every sort really, do you understand that?"

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch yawned.

"I've bored you," Pyotr Stepanovitch cried, jumping up suddenly, and

snatching his perfectly new round hat as though he were going away. He

remained and went on talking, however, though he stood up, sometimes

pacing about the room and tapping himself on the knee with his hat at

exciting parts of the conversation.

"I meant to amuse you with stories of the Lembkes, too," he cried gaily.

"Afterwards, perhaps, not now. But how is Yulia Mihailovna?"

"What conventional manners all of you have! Her health is no more to

you than the health of the grey cat, yet you ask after it. I approve

of that. She's quite well, and her respect for you amounts to a

superstition, her immense anticipations of you amount to a superstition.

She does not say a word about what happened on Sunday, and is convinced

that you will overcome everything yourself by merely making your

appearance. Upon my word! She fancies you can do anything. You're an

enigmatic and romantic figure now, more than ever you were--extremely

advantageous position. It is incredible how eager every one is to see

you. They were pretty hot when I went away, but now it is more so than

ever. Thanks again for your letter. They are all afraid of Count K. Do

you know they look upon you as a spy? I keep that up, you're not angry?"

"It does not matter."

"It does not matter; it's essential in the long run. They have their

ways of doing things here. I encourage it, of course; Yulia Mihailovna,

in the first place, Gaganov too.... You laugh? But you know I have my

policy; I babble away and suddenly I say something clever just as they

are on the look-out for it. They crowd round me and I humbug away again.

They've all given me up in despair by now: 'he's got brains but he's

dropped from the moon.' Lembke invites me to enter the service so that

I may be reformed. You know I treat him mockingly, that is, I compromise

him and he simply stares. Yulia Mihailovna encourages it. Oh, by the

way, Gaganov is in an awful rage with you. He said the nastiest things

about you yesterday at Duhovo. I told him the whole truth on the spot,

that is, of course, not the whole truth. I spent the whole day at

Duhovo. It's a splendid estate, a fine house."

"Then is he at Duhovo now?" Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch broke in suddenly,

making a sudden start forward and almost leaping up from his seat.

"No, he drove me here this morning, we returned together," said Pyotr

Stepanovitch, appearing not to notice Stavrogin's momentary excitement.

"What's this? I dropped a book." He bent down to pick up the "keepsake"

he had knocked down. "'The Women of Balzac,' with illustrations." He

opened it suddenly. "I haven't read it. Lembke writes novels too."

"Yes?" queried Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, as though beginning to be

interested.

"In Russian, on the sly, of course, Yulia Mihailovna knows and allows

it. He's henpecked, but with good manners; it's their system. Such

strict form--such self-restraint! Something of the sort would be the

thing for us."

"You approve of government methods?"

"I should rather think so! It's the one thing that's natural and

practicable in Russia.... I won't... I won't," he cried out suddenly,

"I'm not referring to that--not a word on delicate subjects. Good-bye,

though, you look rather green."

"I'm feverish."

"I can well believe it; you should go to bed. By the way, there are

Skoptsi here in the neighbourhood--they're curious people... of that

later, though. Ah, here's another anecdote. There's an infantry regiment

here in the district. I was drinking last Friday evening with the

officers. We've three friends among them, _vous comprenez?_ They were

discussing atheism and I need hardly say they made short work of God.

They were squealing with delight. By the way, Shatov declares that if

there's to be a rising in Russia we must begin with atheism. Maybe it's

true. One grizzled old stager of a captain sat mum, not saying a word.

All at once he stands up in the middle of the room and says aloud, as

though speaking to himself: 'If there's no God, how can I be a captain

then?' He took up his cap and went out, flinging up his hands."

"He expressed a rather sensible idea," said Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch,

yawning for the third time.

"Yes? I didn't understand it; I meant to ask you about it. Well what

else have I to tell you? The Shpigulin factory's interesting; as you

know, there are five hundred workmen in it, it's a hotbed of cholera,

it's not been cleaned for fifteen years and the factory hands are

swindled. The owners are millionaires. I assure you that some among

the hands have an idea of the _Internationale._ What, you smile? You'll

see--only give me ever so little time! I've asked you to fix the time

already and now I ask you again and then.... But I beg your pardon,

I won't, I won't speak of that, don't frown. There!" He turned back

suddenly. "I quite forgot the chief thing. I was told just now that our

box had come from Petersburg."

"You mean..." Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch looked at him, not understanding.

"Your box, your things, coats, trousers, and linen have come. Is it

true?"

"Yes... they said something about it this morning."

"Ach, then can't I open it at once!..."

"Ask Alexey."

"Well, to-morrow, then, will to-morrow do? You see my new jacket,

dress-coat and three pairs of trousers are with your things, from

Sharmer's, by your recommendation, do you remember?"

"I hear you're going in for being a gentleman here," said Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch with a smile. "Is it true you're going to take lessons

at the riding school?"

Pyotr Stepanovitch smiled a wry smile. "I say," he said suddenly, with

excessive haste in a voice that quivered and faltered, "I say, Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch, let's drop personalities once for all. Of course, you

can despise me as much as you like if it amuses you--but we'd better

dispense with personalities for a time, hadn't we?"

"All right," Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch assented.

Pyotr Stepanovitch grinned, tapped his knee with his hat, shifted from

one leg to the other, and recovered his former expression.

"Some people here positively look upon me as your rival with Lizaveta

Nikolaevna, so I must think of my appearance, mustn't I," he laughed.

"Who was it told you that though? H'm. It's just eight o'clock; well I

must be off. I promised to look in on Varvara Petrovna, but I shall

make my escape. And you go to bed and you'll be stronger to-morrow. It's

raining and dark, but I've a cab, it's not over safe in the streets here

at night.... Ach, by the way, there's a run-away convict from Siberia,

Fedka, wandering about the town and the neighbourhood. Only fancy, he

used to be a serf of mine, and my papa sent him for a soldier fifteen

years ago and took the money for him. He's a very remarkable person."

"You have been talking to him?" Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch scanned him.

"I have. He lets me know where he is. He's ready for anything, anything,

for money of course, but he has convictions, too, of a sort, of course.

Oh yes, by the way, again, if you meant anything of that plan, you

remember, about Lizaveta Nikolaevna, I tell you once again, I too am a

fellow ready for anything of any kind you like, and absolutely at

your service.... Hullo! are you reaching for your stick. Oh no... only

fancy... I thought you were looking for your stick."

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was looking for nothing and said nothing.

But he had risen to his feet very suddenly with a strange look in his

face.

"If you want any help about Mr. Gaganov either," Pyotr Stepanovitch

blurted out suddenly, this time looking straight at the paper-weight,

"of course I can arrange it all, and I'm certain you won't be able to

manage without me."

He went out suddenly without waiting for an answer, but thrust his

head in at the door once more. "I mention that," he gabbled hurriedly,

"because Shatov had no right either, you know, to risk his life last

Sunday when he attacked you, had he? I should be glad if you would make

a note of that." He disappeared again without waiting for an answer.

IV

Perhaps he imagined, as he made his exit, that as soon as he was left

alone, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch would begin beating on the wall with his

fists, and no doubt he would have been glad to see this, if that

had been possible. But, if so, he was greatly mistaken. Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch was still calm. He remained standing for two minutes in

the same position by the table, apparently plunged in thought, but soon

a cold and listless smile came on to his lips. He slowly sat down again

in the same place in the corner of the sofa, and shut his eyes as though

from weariness. The corner of the letter was still peeping from under

the paperweight, but he didn't even move to cover it.

He soon sank into complete forgetfulness.

When Pyotr Stepanovitch went out without coming to see her, as he had

promised, Varvara Petrovna, who had been worn out by anxiety during

these days, could not control herself, and ventured to visit her son

herself, though it was not her regular time. She was still haunted by

the idea that he would tell her something conclusive. She knocked at

the door gently as before, and again receiving no answer, she opened

the door. Seeing that Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was sitting strangely

motionless, she cautiously advanced to the sofa with a throbbing heart.

She seemed struck by the fact that he could fall asleep so quickly and

that he could sleep sitting like that, so erect and motionless, so

that his breathing even was scarcely perceptible. His face was pale and

forbidding, but it looked, as it were, numb and rigid. His brows were

somewhat contracted and frowning. He positively had the look of a

lifeless wax figure. She stood over him for about three minutes,

almost holding her breath, and suddenly she was seized with terror. She

withdrew on tiptoe, stopped at the door, hurriedly made the sign of the

cross over him, and retreated unobserved, with a new oppression and a

new anguish at her heart.

He slept a long while, more than an hour, and still in the same rigid

pose: not a muscle of his face twitched, there was not the faintest

movement in his whole body, and his brows were still contracted in the

same forbidding frown. If Varvara Petrovna had remained another three

minutes she could not have endured the stifling sensation that this

motionless lethargy roused in her, and would have waked him. But he

suddenly opened his eyes, and sat for ten minutes as immovable as

before, staring persistently and curiously, as though at some object

in the corner which had struck him, although there was nothing new or

striking in the room.

Suddenly there rang out the low deep note of the clock on the wall.

With some uneasiness he turned to look at it, but almost at the same

moment the other door opened, and the butler, Alexey Yegorytch came in.

He had in one hand a greatcoat, a scarf, and a hat, and in the other a

silver tray with a note on it.

"Half-past nine," he announced softly, and laying the other things on a

chair, he held out the tray with the note--a scrap of paper unsealed and

scribbled in pencil. Glancing through it, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch took

a pencil from the table, added a few words, and put the note back on the

tray.

"Take it back as soon as I have gone out, and now dress me," he said,

getting up from the sofa.

Noticing that he had on a light velvet jacket, he thought a minute,

and told the man to bring him a cloth coat, which he wore on more

ceremonious occasions. At last, when he was dressed and had put on his

hat, he locked the door by which his mother had come into the room, took

the letter from under the paperweight, and without saying a word went

out into the corridor, followed by Alexey Yegorytch. From the corridor

they went down the narrow stone steps of the back stairs to a passage

which opened straight into the garden. In the corner stood a lantern and

a big umbrella.

"Owing to the excessive rain the mud in the streets is beyond anything,"

Alexey Yegorytch announced, making a final effort to deter his master

from the expedition. But opening his umbrella the latter went without

a word into the damp and sodden garden, which was dark as a cellar. The

wind was roaring and tossing the bare tree-tops. The little sandy

paths were wet and slippery. Alexey Yegorytch walked along as he was,

bareheaded, in his swallow-tail coat, lighting up the path for about

three steps before them with the lantern.

"Won't it be noticed?" Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch asked suddenly.

"Not from the windows. Besides I have seen to all that already," the old

servant answered in quiet and measured tones.

"Has my mother retired?"

"Her excellency locked herself in at nine o'clock as she has done the

last few days, and there is no possibility of her knowing anything. At

what hour am I to expect your honour?"

"At one or half-past, not later than two."

"Yes, sir."

Crossing the garden by the winding paths that they both knew by heart,

they reached the stone wall, and there in the farthest corner found

a little door, which led out into a narrow and deserted lane, and was

always kept locked. It appeared that Alexey Yegorytch had the key in his

hand.

"Won't the door creak?" Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch inquired again.

But Alexey Yegorytch informed him that it had been oiled yesterday "as

well as to-day." He was by now wet through. Unlocking the door he gave

the key to Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch.

"If it should be your pleasure to be taking a distant walk, I would warn

your honour that I am not confident of the folk here, especially in

the back lanes, and especially beyond the river," he could not resist

warning him again. He was an old servant, who had been like a nurse to

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, and at one time used to dandle him in his arms;

he was a grave and severe man who was fond of listening to religious

discourse and reading books of devotion.

"Don't be uneasy, Alexey Yegorytch."

"May God's blessing rest on you, sir, but only in your righteous

undertakings."

"What?" said Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, stopping short in the lane.

Alexey Yegorytch resolutely repeated his words. He had never before

ventured to express himself in such language in his master's presence.

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and

crossed the lane, sinking five or six inches into the mud at every step.

He came out at last into a long deserted street. He knew the town like

the five fingers of his hand, but Bogoyavlensky Street was a long way

off. It was past ten when he stopped at last before the locked gates of

the dark old house that belonged to Filipov. The ground floor had stood

empty since the Lebyadkins had left it, and the windows were boarded up,

but there was a light burning in Shatov's room on the second floor. As

there was no bell he began banging on the gate with his hand. A window

was opened and Shatov peeped out into the street. It was terribly dark,

and difficult to make out anything. Shatov was peering out for some

time, about a minute.

"Is that you?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes," replied the uninvited guest.

Shatov slammed the window, went downstairs and opened the gate. Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch stepped over the high sill, and without a word passed by

him straight into Kirillov's lodge.

V

There everything was unlocked and all the doors stood open. The passage

and the first two rooms were dark, but there was a light shining in the

last, in which Kirillov lived and drank tea, and laughter and strange

cries came from it. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch went towards the light, but

stood still in the doorway without going in. There was tea on the table.

In the middle of the room stood the old woman who was a relation of the

landlord. She was bareheaded and was dressed in a petticoat and a

hare-skin jacket, and her stockingless feet were thrust into slippers.

In her arms she had an eighteen-months-old baby, with nothing on but its

little shirt; with bare legs, flushed cheeks, and ruffled white hair. It

had only just been taken out of the cradle. It seemed to have just been

crying; there were still tears in its eyes. But at that instant it was

stretching out its little arms, clapping its hands, and laughing with a

sob as little children do. Kirillov was bouncing a big red india-rubber

ball on the floor before it. The ball bounced up to the ceiling, and back

to the floor, the baby shrieked "Baw! baw!" Kirillov caught the "baw",

and gave it to it. The baby threw it itself with its awkward little hands,

and Kirillov ran to pick it up again.

At last the "baw" rolled under the cupboard. "Baw! baw!" cried the

child. Kirillov lay down on the floor, trying to reach the ball with his

hand under the cupboard. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch went into the room. The

baby caught sight of him, nestled against the old woman, and went off

into a prolonged infantile wail. The woman immediately carried it out of

the room.

"Stavrogin?" said Kirillov, beginning to get up from the floor with the

ball in his hand, and showing no surprise at the unexpected visit. "Will

you have tea?"

He rose to his feet.

"I should be very glad of it, if it's hot," said Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch; "I'm wet through."

"It's hot, nearly boiling in fact," Kirillov declared delighted. "Sit

down. You're muddy, but that's nothing; I'll mop up the floor later."

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch sat down and emptied the cup he handed him

almost at a gulp.

"Some more?" asked Kirillov.

"No, thank you."

Kirillov, who had not sat down till then, seated himself facing him, and

inquired:

"Why have you come?"

"On business. Here, read this letter from Gaganov; do you remember, I

talked to you about him in Petersburg."

Kirillov took the letter, read it, laid it on the table and looked at

him expectantly.

"As you know, I met this Gaganov for the first time in my life a month

ago, in Petersburg," Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch began to explain. "We

came across each other two or three times in company with other people.

Without making my acquaintance and without addressing me, he managed to

be very insolent to me. I told you so at the time; but now for something

you don't know. As he was leaving Petersburg before I did, he sent me

a letter, not like this one, yet impertinent in the highest degree, and

what was queer about it was that it contained no sort of explanation of

why it was written. I answered him at once, also by letter, and said,

quite frankly, that he was probably angry with me on account of the

incident with his father four years ago in the club here, and that I for

my part was prepared to make him every possible apology, seeing that my

action was unintentional and was the result of illness. I begged him to

consider and accept my apologies. He went away without answering, and

now here I find him in a regular fury. Several things he has said about

me in public have been repeated to me, absolutely abusive, and making

astounding charges against me. Finally, to-day, I get this letter, a

letter such as no one has ever had before, I should think, containing

such expressions as 'the punch you got in your ugly face.' I came in the

hope that you would not refuse to be my second."

"You said no one has ever had such a letter," observed Kirillov, "they

may be sent in a rage. Such letters have been written more than once.

Pushkin wrote to Hekern. All right, I'll come. Tell me how."

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch explained that he wanted it to be to-morrow, and

that he must begin by renewing his offers of apology, and even with the

promise of another letter of apology, but on condition that Gaganov,

on his side, should promise to send no more letters. The letter he had

received he would regard as unwritten.

"Too much concession; he won't agree," said Kirillov.

"I've come first of all to find out whether you would consent to be the

bearer of such terms."

"I'll take them. It's your affair. But he won't agree."

"I know he won't agree."

"He wants to fight. Say how you'll fight."

"The point is that I want the thing settled to-morrow. By nine o'clock

in the morning you must be at his house. He'll listen, and won't agree,

but will put you in communication with his second--let us say about

eleven. You will arrange things with him, and let us all be on the

spot by one or two o'clock. Please try to arrange that. The weapons, of

course, will be pistols. And I particularly beg you to arrange to fix

the barriers at ten paces apart; then you put each of us ten paces from

the barrier, and at a given signal we approach. Each must go right up to

his barrier, but you may fire before, on the way. I believe that's all."

"Ten paces between the barriers is very near," observed Kirillov.

"Well, twelve then, but not more. You understand that he wants to fight

in earnest. Do you know how to load a pistol?"

"I do. I've got pistols. I'll give my word that you've never fired

them. His second will give his word about his. There'll be two pairs of

pistols, and we'll toss up, his or ours?"

"Excellent."

"Would you like to look at the pistols?"

"Very well."

Kirillov squatted on his heels before the trunk in the corner, which

he had never yet unpacked, though things had been pulled out of it as

required. He pulled out from the bottom a palm-wood box lined with red

velvet, and from it took out a pair of smart and very expensive pistols.

"I've got everything, powder, bullets, cartridges. I've a revolver

besides, wait."

He stooped down to the trunk again and took out a six-chambered American

revolver.

"You've got weapons enough, and very good ones."

"Very, extremely."

Kirillov, who was poor, almost destitute, though he never noticed his

poverty, was evidently proud of showing precious weapons, which he had

certainly obtained with great sacrifice.

"You still have the same intentions?" Stavrogin asked after a moment's

silence, and with a certain wariness.

"Yes," answered Kirillov shortly, guessing at once from his voice what

he was asking about, and he began taking the weapons from the table.

"When?" Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch inquired still more cautiously, after a

pause.

In the meantime Kirillov had put both the boxes back in his trunk, and

sat down in his place again.

"That doesn't depend on me, as you know--when they tell me," he

muttered, as though disliking the question; but at the same time with

evident readiness to answer any other question. He kept his black,

lustreless eyes fixed continually on Stavrogin with a calm but warm and

kindly expression in them.

"I understand shooting oneself, of course," Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch

began suddenly, frowning a little, after a dreamy silence that lasted

three minutes. "I sometimes have thought of it myself, and then there

always came a new idea: if one did something wicked, or, worse still,

something shameful, that is, disgraceful, only very shameful and...

ridiculous, such as people would remember for a thousand years and hold

in scorn for a thousand years, and suddenly the thought comes: 'one blow

in the temple and there would be nothing more.' One wouldn't care then

for men and that they would hold one in scorn for a thousand years,

would one?"

"You call that a new idea?" said Kirillov, after a moment's thought.

"I... didn't call it so, but when I thought it I felt it as a new idea."

"You 'felt the idea'?" observed Kirillov. "That's good. There are lots

of ideas that are always there and yet suddenly become new. That's true.

I see a great deal now as though it were for the first time."

"Suppose you had lived in the moon," Stavrogin interrupted, not

listening, but pursuing his own thought, "and suppose there you had done

all these nasty and ridiculous things.... You know from here for certain

that they will laugh at you and hold you in scorn for a thousand years

as long as the moon lasts. But now you are here, and looking at the moon

from here. You don't care here for anything you've done there, and that

the people there will hold you in scorn for a thousand years, do you?"

"I don't know," answered Kirillov. "I've not been in the moon," he

added, without any irony, simply to state the fact.

"Whose baby was that just now?"

"The old woman's mother-in-law was here--no, daughter-in-law, it's all

the same. Three days. She's lying ill with the baby, it cries a lot at

night, it's the stomach. The mother sleeps, but the old woman picks it

up; I play ball with it. The ball's from Hamburg. I bought it in Hamburg

to throw it and catch it, it strengthens the spine. It's a girl."

"Are you fond of children?"

"I am," answered Kirillov, though rather indifferently.

"Then you're fond of life?"

"Yes, I'm fond of life! What of it?"

"Though you've made up your mind to shoot yourself."

"What of it? Why connect it? Life's one thing and that's another. Life

exists, but death doesn't at all."

"You've begun to believe in a future eternal life?"

"No, not in a future eternal life, but in eternal life here. There are

moments, you reach moments, and time suddenly stands still, and it will

become eternal."

"You hope to reach such a moment?"

"Yes."

"That'll scarcely be possible in our time," Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch

responded slowly and, as it were, dreamily; the two spoke without the

slightest irony. "In the Apocalypse the angel swears that there will be

no more time."

"I know. That's very true; distinct and exact. When all mankind attains

happiness then there will be no more time, for there'll be no need of

it, a very true thought."

"Where will they put it?"

"Nowhere. Time's not an object but an idea. It will be extinguished in

the mind."

"The old commonplaces of philosophy, the same from the beginning of

time," Stavrogin muttered with a kind of disdainful compassion.

"Always the same, always the same, from the beginning of time and never

any other," Kirillov said with sparkling eyes, as though there were

almost a triumph in that idea.

"You seem to be very happy, Kirillov."

"Yes, very happy," he answered, as though making the most ordinary

reply.

"But you were distressed so lately, angry with Liputin."

"H'm... I'm not scolding now. I didn't know then that I was happy. Have

you seen a leaf, a leaf from a tree?"

"Yes."

"I saw a yellow one lately, a little green. It was decayed at the edges.

It was blown by the wind. When I was ten years old I used to shut my

eyes in the winter on purpose and fancy a green leaf, bright, with veins

on it, and the sun shining. I used to open my eyes and not believe them,

because it was very nice, and I used to shut them again."

"What's that? An allegory?"

"N-no... why? I'm not speaking of an allegory, but of a leaf, only a

leaf. The leaf is good. Everything's good."

"Everything?"

"Everything. Man is unhappy because he doesn't know he's happy. It's

only that. That's all, that's all! If anyone finds out he'll become

happy at once, that minute. That mother-in-law will die; but the baby

will remain. It's all good. I discovered it all of a sudden."

"And if anyone dies of hunger, and if anyone insults and outrages the

little girl, is that good?"

"Yes! And if anyone blows his brains out for the baby, that's good too.

And if anyone doesn't, that's good too. It's all good, all. It's good

for all those who know that it's all good. If they knew that it was good

for them, it would be good for them, but as long as they don't know it's

good for them, it will be bad for them. That's the whole idea, the whole

of it."

"When did you find out you were so happy?"

"Last week, on Tuesday, no, Wednesday, for it was Wednesday by that

time, in the night."

"By what reasoning?"

"I don't remember; I was walking about the room; never mind. I stopped

my clock. It was thirty-seven minutes past two."

"As an emblem of the fact that there will be no more time?"

Kirillov was silent.

"They're bad because they don't know they're good. When they find out,

they won't outrage a little girl. They'll find out that they're good and

they'll all become good, every one of them."

"Here you've found it out, so have you become good then?"

"I am good."

"That I agree with, though," Stavrogin muttered, frowning.

"He who teaches that all are good will end the world."

"He who taught it was crucified."

"He will come, and his name will be the man-god."

"The god-man?"

"The man-god. That's the difference."