I decline to describe the scene that followed. To begin with there was a

furious volley of applause. The applause did not come from all--probably

from some fifth part of the audience--but they applauded furiously. The

rest of the public made for the exit, but as the applauding part of the

audience kept pressing forward towards the platform, there was a regular

block. The ladies screamed, some of the girls began to cry and asked to

go home. Lembke, standing up by his chair, kept gazing wildly about him.

Yulia Mihailovna completely lost her head--for the first time during her

career amongst us. As for Stepan Trofimovitch, for the first moment

he seemed literally crushed by the divinity student's words, but he

suddenly raised his arms as though holding them out above the public and

yelled:

"I shake the dust from off my feet and I curse you.... It's the end, the

end...."

And turning, he ran behind the scenes, waving his hands menacingly.

"He has insulted the audience!... Verhovensky!" the angry section

roared. They even wanted to rush in pursuit of him. It was impossible to

appease them, at the moment, any way, and--a final catastrophe broke

like a bomb on the assembly and exploded in its midst: the third reader,

the maniac who kept waving his fist behind the scenes, suddenly ran

on to the platform. He looked like a perfect madman. With a broad,

triumphant smile, full of boundless self-confidence, he looked round at

the agitated hall and he seemed to be delighted at the disorder. He was

not in the least disconcerted at having to speak in such an uproar, on

the contrary, he was obviously delighted. This was so obvious that it

attracted attention at once.

"What's this now?" people were heard asking. "Who is this? Sh-h! What

does he want to say?"

"Ladies and gentlemen," the maniac shouted with all his might, standing

at the very edge of the platform and speaking with almost as shrill,

feminine a voice as Karmazinov's, but without the aristocratic lisp.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Twenty years ago, on the eve of war with half

Europe, Russia was regarded as an ideal country by officials of all

ranks! Literature was in the service of the censorship; military drill

was all that was taught at the universities; the troops were trained

like a ballet, and the peasants paid the taxes and were mute under the

lash of serfdom. Patriotism meant the wringing of bribes from the quick

and the dead. Those who did not take bribes were looked upon as rebels

because they disturbed the general harmony. The birch copses were

extirpated in support of discipline. Europe trembled.... But never in

the thousand years of its senseless existence had Russia sunk to such

ignominy...."

He raised his fist, waved it ecstatically and menacingly over his head

and suddenly brought it down furiously, as though pounding an adversary

to powder. A frantic yell rose from the whole hall, there was a

deafening roar of applause; almost half the audience was applauding:

their enthusiasm was excusable. Russia was being put to shame publicly,

before every one. Who could fail to roar with delight?

"This is the real thing! Come, this is something like! Hurrah! Yes, this

is none of your æsthetics!"

The maniac went on ecstatically:

"Twenty years have passed since then. Universities have been opened and

multiplied. Military drill has passed into a legend; officers are too

few by thousands, the railways have eaten up all the capital and have

covered Russia as with a spider's web, so that in another fifteen years

one will perhaps get somewhere. Bridges are rarely on fire, and fires in

towns occur only at regular intervals, in turn, at the proper season.

In the law courts judgments are as wise as Solomon's, and the jury only

take bribes through the struggle for existence, to escape starvation.

The serfs are free, and flog one another instead of being flogged by

the land-owners. Seas and oceans of vodka are consumed to support the

budget, and in Novgorod, opposite the ancient and useless St. Sophia,

there has been solemnly put up a colossal bronze globe to celebrate a

thousand years of disorder and confusion; Europe scowls and begins to

be uneasy again.... Fifteen years of reforms! And yet never even in the

most grotesque periods of its madness has Russia sunk..."

The last words could not be heard in the roar of the crowd. One could

see him again raise his arm and bring it down triumphantly again.

Enthusiasm was beyond all bounds: people yelled, clapped their hands,

even some of the ladies shouted: "Enough, you can't beat that!" Some

might have been drunk. The orator scanned them all and seemed revelling

in his own triumph. I caught a glimpse of Lembke in indescribable

excitement, pointing something out to somebody. Yulia Mihailovna, with a

pale face, said something in haste to the prince, who had run up to her.

But at that moment a group of six men, officials more or less, burst on

to the platform, seized the orator and dragged him behind the scenes. I

can't understand how he managed to tear himself away from them, but he

did escape, darted up to the edge of the platform again and succeeded in

shouting again, at the top of his voice, waving his fist: "But never has

Russia sunk..."

But he was dragged away again. I saw some fifteen men dash behind the

scenes to rescue him, not crossing the platform but breaking down the

light screen at the side of it.... I saw afterwards, though I could

hardly believe my eyes, the girl student (Virginsky's sister) leap on

to the platform with the same roll under her arm, dressed as before,

as plump and rosy as ever, surrounded by two or three women and two or

three men, and accompanied by her mortal enemy, the schoolboy. I even

caught the phrase:

"Ladies and gentlemen, I've come to call attention to the sufferings

of poor students and to rouse them to a general protest..."

But I ran away. Hiding my badge in my pocket I made my way from the

house into the street by back passages which I knew of. First of all, of

course, I went to Stepan Trofimovitch's.

CHAPTER II. THE END OF THE FETE

I

HE WOULD NOT SEE ME. He had shut himself up and was writing. At my

repeated knocks and appeals he answered through the door:

"My friend, I have finished everything. Who can ask anything more of

me?"

"You haven't finished anything, you've only helped to make a mess of the

whole thing. For God's sake, no epigrams, Stepan Trofimovitch! Open the

door. We must take steps; they may still come and insult you...."

I thought myself entitled to be particularly severe and even rigorous.

I was afraid he might be going to do something still more mad. But to my

surprise I met an extraordinary firmness.

"Don't be the first to insult me then. I thank you for the past, but

I repeat I've done with all men, good and bad. I am writing to Darya

Pavlovna, whom I've forgotten so unpardonably till now. You may take it

to her to-morrow, if you like, now _merci_."

"Stepan Trofimovitch, I assure you that the matter is more serious

than you think. Do you think that you've crushed someone there? You've

pulverised no one, but have broken yourself to pieces like an empty

bottle." (Oh, I was coarse and discourteous, I remember it with

regret.) "You've absolutely no reason to write to Darya Pavlovna... and

what will you do with yourself without me? What do you understand about

practical life? I expect you are plotting something else? You'll simply

come to grief again if you go plotting something more...."

He rose and came close up to the door.

"You've not been long with them, but you've caught the infection of

their tone and language. _Dieu vous pardonne, mon ami, et Dieu vous

garde._ But I've always seen in you the germs of delicate feeling, and

you will get over it perhaps--_après le temps,_ of course, like all of us

Russians. As for what you say about my impracticability, I'll remind you

of a recent idea of mine: a whole mass of people in Russia do nothing

whatever but attack other people's impracticability with the utmost fury

and with the tiresome persistence of flies in the summer, accusing every

one of it except themselves. _Cher,_ remember that I am excited, and

don't distress me. Once more _merci_ for everything, and let us part like

Karmazinov and the public; that is, let us forget each other with as

much generosity as we can. He was posing in begging his former readers

so earnestly to forget him; _quant à moi,_ I am not so conceited, and I

rest my hopes on the youth of your inexperienced heart. How should you

remember a useless old man for long? 'Live more,' my friend, as Nastasya

wished me on my last name-day _(ces pauvres gens ont quelquefois des

mots charmants et pleins de philosophie)._ I do not wish you much

happiness--it will bore you. I do not wish you trouble either, but,

following the philosophy of the peasant, I will repeat simply 'live

more' and try not to be much bored; this useless wish I add from myself.

Well, good-bye, and good-bye for good. Don't stand at my door, I will

not open it."

He went away and I could get nothing more out of him. In spite of his

"excitement," he spoke smoothly, deliberately, with weight, obviously

trying to be impressive. Of course he was rather vexed with me and was

avenging himself indirectly, possibly even for the yesterday's "prison

carts" and "floors that give way." His tears in public that morning, in

spite of a triumph of a sort, had put him, he knew, in rather a comic

position, and there never was a man more solicitous of dignity and

punctilio in his relations with his friends than Stepan Trofimovitch.

Oh, I don't blame him. But this fastidiousness and irony which he

preserved in spite of all shocks reassured me at the time. A man who was

so little different from his ordinary self was, of course, not in the

mood at that moment for anything tragic or extraordinary. So I reasoned

at the time, and, heavens, what a mistake I made! I left too much out of

my reckoning.

In anticipation of events I will quote the few first lines of the letter

to Darya Pavlovna, which she actually received the following day:

"_Mon enfant,_ my hand trembles, but I've done with everything. You were

not present at my last struggle: you did not come to that matinée, and

you did well to stay away. But you will be told that in our Russia,

which has grown so poor in men of character, one man had the courage to

stand up and, in spite of deadly menaces showered on him from all

sides, to tell the fools the truth, that is, that they are fools. _Oh,

ce sont--des pauvres petits vauriens et rien de plus, des

petits_--fools--_voilà le mot!_ The die is cast; I am going from this town

forever and I know not whither. Every one I loved has turned from me.

But you, you are a pure and naïve creature; you, a gentle being whose

life has been all but linked with mine at the will of a capricious and

imperious heart; you who looked at me perhaps with contempt when I shed

weak tears on the eve of our frustrated marriage; you, who cannot in any

case look on me except as a comic figure--for you, for you is the last

cry of my heart, for you my last duty, for you alone! I cannot leave

you forever thinking of me as an ungrateful fool, a churlish egoist, as

probably a cruel and ungrateful heart--whom, alas, I cannot forget--is

every day describing me to you...."

And so on and so on, four large pages.

Answering his "I won't open" with three bangs with my fist on the door,

and shouting after him that I was sure he would send Nastasya for me

three times that day, but I would not come, I gave him up and ran off to

Yulia Mihailovna.

II

There I was the witness of a revolting scene: the poor woman was

deceived to her face, and I could do nothing. Indeed, what could I say

to her? I had had time to reconsider things a little and reflect that

I had nothing to go upon but certain feelings and suspicious

presentiments. I found her in tears, almost in hysterics, with

compresses of eau-de-Cologne and a glass of water. Before her stood

Pyotr Stepanovitch, who talked without stopping, and the prince, who

held his tongue as though it had been under a lock. With tears and

lamentations she reproached Pyotr Stepanovitch for his "desertion." I

was struck at once by the fact that she ascribed the whole failure,

the whole ignominy of the matinée, everything in fact, to Pyotr

Stepanovitch's absence.

In him I observed an important change: he seemed a shade too anxious,

almost serious. As a rule he never seemed serious; he was always

laughing, even when he was angry, and he was often angry. Oh, he was

angry now! He was speaking coarsely, carelessly, with vexation and

impatience. He said that he had been taken ill at Gaganov's lodging,

where he had happened to go early in the morning. Alas, the poor woman

was so anxious to be deceived again! The chief question which I found

being discussed was whether the ball, that is, the whole second half of

the fête, should or should not take place. Yulia Mihailovna could not be

induced to appear at the ball "after the insults she had received that

morning"; in other words, her heart was set on being compelled to do so,

and by him, by Pyotr Stepanovitch. She looked upon him as an oracle, and

I believe if he had gone away she would have taken to her bed at once.

But he did not want to go away; he was desperately anxious that the ball

should take place and that Yulia Mihailovna should be present at it.

"Come, what is there to cry about? Are you set on having a scene? On

venting your anger on somebody? Well, vent it on me; only make haste

about it, for the time is passing and you must make up your mind. We

made a mess of it with the matinée; we'll pick up on the ball. Here, the

prince thinks as I do. Yes, if it hadn't been for the prince, how would

things have ended there?"

The prince had been at first opposed to the ball (that is, opposed to

Yulia Mihailovna's appearing at it; the ball was bound to go on in any

case), but after two or three such references to his opinion he began

little by little to grunt his acquiescence.

I was surprised too at the extraordinary rudeness of Pyotr

Stepanovitch's tone. Oh, I scout with indignation the contemptible

slander which was spread later of some supposed liaison between Yulia

Mihailovna and Pyotr Stepanovitch. There was no such thing, nor could

there be. He gained his ascendency over her from the first only by

encouraging her in her dreams of influence in society and in the

ministry, by entering into her plans, by inventing them for her, and

working upon her with the grossest flattery. He had got her completely

into his toils and had become as necessary to her as the air she

breathed. Seeing me, she cried, with flashing eyes:

"Here, ask him. He kept by my side all the while, just like the prince

did. Tell me, isn't it plain that it was all a preconcerted plot, a

base, designing plot to damage Andrey Antonovitch and me as much as

possible? Oh, they had arranged it beforehand. They had a plan! It's a

party, a regular party."

"You are exaggerating as usual. You've always some romantic notion in

your head. But I am glad to see Mr...." (He pretended to have forgotten

my name.) "He'll give us his opinion."

"My opinion," I hastened to put in, "is the same as Yulia Mihailovna's.

The plot is only too evident. I have brought you these ribbons, Yulia

Mihailovna. Whether the ball is to take place or not is not my business,

for it's not in my power to decide; but my part as steward is over.

Forgive my warmth, but I can't act against the dictates of common sense

and my own convictions."

"You hear! You hear!" She clasped her hands.

"I hear, and I tell you this." He turned to me. "I think you must

have eaten something which has made you all delirious. To my thinking,

nothing has happened, absolutely nothing but what has happened before

and is always liable to happen in this town. A plot, indeed! It was an

ugly failure, disgracefully stupid. But where's the plot? A plot against

Yulia Mihailovna, who has spoiled them and protected them and fondly

forgiven them all their schoolboy pranks! Yulia Mihailovna! What have I

been hammering into you for the last month continually? What did I warn

you? What did you want with all these people--what did you want with

them? What induced you to mix yourself up with these fellows? What was

the motive, what was the object of it? To unite society? But, mercy on

us! will they ever be united?"

"When did you warn me? On the contrary, you approved of it, you even

insisted on it.... I confess I am so surprised.... You brought all sorts

of strange people to see me yourself."

"On the contrary, I opposed you; I did not approve of it. As for

bringing them to see you, I certainly did, but only after they'd got

in by dozens and only of late to make up 'the literary quadrille'--we

couldn't get on without these rogues. Only I don't mind betting that a

dozen or two more of the same sort were let in without tickets to-day."

"Not a doubt of it," I agreed.

"There, you see, you are agreeing already. Think what the tone has been

lately here--I mean in this wretched town. It's nothing but insolence,

impudence; it's been a crying scandal all the time. And who's been

encouraging it? Who's screened it by her authority? Who's upset them

all? Who has made all the small fry huffy? All their family secrets are

caricatured in your album. Didn't you pat them on the back, your poets

and caricaturists? Didn't you let Lyamshin kiss your hand? Didn't a

divinity student abuse an actual state councillor in your presence and

spoil his daughter's dress with his tarred boots? Now, can you wonder

that the public is set against you?"

"But that's all your doing, yours! Oh, my goodness!"

"No, I warned you. We quarrelled. Do you hear, we quarrelled?"

"Why, you are lying to my face!"

"Of course it's easy for you to say that. You need a victim to vent your

wrath on. Well, vent it on me as I've said already. I'd better appeal to

you, Mr...." (He was still unable to recall my name.) "We'll reckon

on our fingers. I maintain that, apart from Liputin, there was nothing

preconcerted, nothing! I will prove it, but first let us analyse

Liputin. He came forward with that fool Lebyadkin's verses. Do you

maintain that that was a plot? But do you know it might simply have

struck Liputin as a clever thing to do. Seriously, seriously. He simply

came forward with the idea of making every one laugh and entertaining

them--his protectress Yulia Mihailovna first of all. That was all. Don't

you believe it? Isn't that in keeping with all that has been going

on here for the last month? Do you want me to tell the whole truth? I

declare that under other circumstances it might have gone off all right.

It was a coarse joke--well, a bit strong, perhaps; but it was amusing,

you know, wasn't it?"

"What! You think what Liputin did was clever?" Yulia Mihailovna cried

in intense indignation. "Such stupidity, such tactlessness, so

contemptible, so mean! It was intentional! Oh, you are saying it on

purpose! I believe after that you are in the plot with them yourself."

"Of course I was behind the scenes, I was in hiding, I set it all going.

But if I were in the plot--understand that, anyway--it wouldn't have

ended with Liputin. So according to you I had arranged with my papa too

that he should cause such a scene on purpose? Well, whose fault is it

that my papa was allowed to read? Who tried only yesterday to prevent

you from allowing it, only yesterday?"

"_Oh, hier il avait tant d'esprit,_ I was so reckoning on him; and then he

has such manners. I thought with him and Karmazinov... Only think!"

"Yes, only think. But in spite of _tant d'esprit_ papa has made things

worse, and if I'd known beforehand that he'd make such a mess of it, I

should certainly not have persuaded you yesterday to keep the goat

out of the kitchen garden, should I--since I am taking part in this

conspiracy against your fête that you are so positive about? And yet I

did try to dissuade you yesterday; I tried to because I foresaw it. To

foresee everything was, of course, impossible; he probably did not know

himself a minute before what he would fire off--these nervous old men

can't be reckoned on like other people. But you can still save

the situation: to satisfy the public, send to him to-morrow by

administrative order, and with all the ceremonies, two doctors to

inquire into his health. Even to-day, in fact, and take him straight to

the hospital and apply cold compresses. Every one would laugh, anyway,

and see that there was nothing to take offence at. I'll tell people

about it in the evening at the ball, as I am his son. Karmazinov is

another story. He was a perfect ass and dragged out his article for a

whole hour. He certainly must have been in the plot with me! 'I'll make

a mess of it too,' he thought, 'to damage Yulia Mihailovna.'"

"Oh, Karmazinov! _Quelle honte!_ I was burning, burning with shame for his

audience!"

"Well, I shouldn't have burnt, but have cooked him instead. The audience

was right, you know. Who was to blame for Karmazinov, again? Did I foist

him upon you? Was I one of his worshippers? Well, hang him! But the

third maniac, the political--that's a different matter. That was every

one's blunder, not only my plot."

"Ah, don't speak of it! That was awful, awful! That was my fault,

entirely my fault!"

"Of course it was, but I don't blame you for that. No one can control

them, these candid souls! You can't always be safe from them, even in

Petersburg. He was recommended to you, and in what terms too! So you

will admit that you are bound to appear at the ball to-night. It's an

important business. It was you put him on to the platform. You must make

it plain now to the public that you are not in league with him, that

the fellow is in the hands of the police, and that you were in some

inexplicable way deceived. You ought to declare with indignation that

you were the victim of a madman. Because he is a madman and nothing

more. That's how you must put it about him. I can't endure these people

who bite. I say worse things perhaps, but not from the platform, you

know. And they are talking about a senator too."

"What senator? Who's talking?"

"I don't understand it myself, you know. Do you know anything about a

senator, Yulia Mihailovna?"

"A senator?"

"You see, they are convinced that a senator has been appointed to be

governor here, and that you are being superseded from Petersburg. I've

heard it from lots of people."

"I've heard it too," I put in.

"Who said so?" asked Yulia Mihailovna, flushing all over.

"You mean, who said so first? How can I tell? But there it is, people

say so. Masses of people are saying so. They were saying so yesterday

particularly. They are all very serious about it, though I can't make it

out. Of course the more intelligent and competent don't talk, but even

some of those listen."

"How mean! And... how stupid!"

"Well, that's just why you must make your appearance, to show these

fools."

"I confess I feel myself that it's my duty, but... what if there's

another disgrace in store for us? What if people don't come? No one will

come, you know, no one!"

"How hot you are! They not come! What about the new clothes? What about

the girls' dresses? I give you up as a woman after that! Is that your

knowledge of human nature?"

"The marshal's wife won't come, she won't."

"But, after all, what has happened? Why won't they come?" he cried at

last with angry impatience.

"Ignominy, disgrace--that's what's happened. I don't know what to call

it, but after it I can't face people."

"Why? How are you to blame for it, after all? Why do you take the blame

of it on yourself? Isn't it rather the fault of the audience, of

your respectable residents, your patresfamilias? They ought to have

controlled the roughs and the rowdies--for it was all the work of roughs

and rowdies, nothing serious. You can never manage things with the

police alone in any society, anywhere. Among us every one asks for

a special policeman to protect him wherever he goes. People don't

understand that society must protect itself. And what do our

patresfamilias, the officials, the wives and daughters, do in such

cases? They sit quiet and sulk. In fact there's not enough social

initiative to keep the disorderly in check."

"Ah, that's the simple truth! They sit quiet, sulk and... gaze about

them."

"And if it's the truth, you ought to say so aloud, proudly, sternly,

just to show that you are not defeated, to those respectable residents

and mothers of families. Oh, you can do it; you have the gift when your

head is clear. You will gather them round you and say it aloud. And

then a paragraph in the _Voice_ and the _Financial News._ Wait a bit, I'll

undertake it myself, I'll arrange it all for you. Of course there must

be more superintendence: you must look after the buffet; you must ask

the prince, you must ask Mr.... You must not desert us, monsieur, just

when we have to begin all over again. And finally, you must appear

arm-in-arm with Andrey Antonovitch.... How is Andrey Antonovitch?"

"Oh, how unjustly, how untruly, how cruelly you have always judged that

angelic man!" Yulia Mihailovna cried in a sudden, outburst, almost with

tears, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.

Pyotr Stepanovitch was positively taken aback for the moment. "Good

heavens! I.... What have I said? I've always..."

"You never have, never! You have never done him justice."

"There's no understanding a woman," grumbled Pyotr Stepanovitch, with a

wry smile.

"He is the most sincere, the most delicate, the most angelic of men! The

most kind-hearted of men!"

"Well, really, as for kind-heartedness... I've always done him

justice...."

"Never! But let us drop it. I am too awkward in my defence of him.

This morning that little Jesuit, the marshal's wife, also dropped some

sarcastic hints about what happened yesterday."

"Oh, she has no thoughts to spare for yesterday now, she is full of

to-day. And why are you so upset at her not coming to the ball to-night?

Of course, she won't come after getting mixed up in such a scandal.

Perhaps it's not her fault, but still her reputation... her hands are

soiled."

"What do you mean; I don't understand? Why are her hands soiled?" Yulia

Mihailovna looked at him in perplexity.

"I don't vouch for the truth of it, but the town is ringing with the

story that it was she brought them together."

"What do you mean? Brought whom together?"

"What, do you mean to say you don't know?" he exclaimed with

well-simulated wonder. "Why Stavrogin and Lizaveta Nikolaevna."

"What? How?" we all cried out at once.

"Is it possible you don't know? Phew! Why, it is quite a tragic romance:

Lizaveta Nikolaevna was pleased to get out of that lady's carriage

and get straight into Stavrogin's carriage, and slipped off with 'the

latter' to Skvoreshniki in full daylight. Only an hour ago, hardly an

hour."

We were flabbergasted. Of course we fell to questioning him, but to our

wonder, although he "happened" to be a witness of the scene himself,

he could give us no detailed account of it. The thing seemed to have

happened like this: when the marshal's wife was driving Liza and Mavriky

Nikolaevitch from the matinée to the house of Praskovya Ivanovna (whose

legs were still bad) they saw a carriage waiting a short distance, about

twenty-five paces, to one side of the front door. When Liza jumped out,

she ran straight to this carriage; the door was flung open and shut

again; Liza called to Mavriky Nikolaevitch, "Spare me," and the carriage

drove off at full speed to Skvoreshniki. To our hurried questions

whether it was by arrangement? Who was in the carriage? Pyotr

Stepanovitch answered that he knew nothing about it; no doubt it had

been arranged, but that he did not see Stavrogin himself; possibly the

old butler, Alexey Yegorytch, might have been in the carriage. To the

question "How did he come to be there, and how did he know for a fact

that she had driven to Skvoreshniki?" he answered that he happened to be

passing and, at seeing Liza, he had run up to the carriage (and yet he

could not make out who was in it, an inquisitive man like him!) and

that Mavriky Nikolaevitch, far from setting off in pursuit, had not

even tried to stop Liza, and had even laid a restraining hand on the

marshal's wife, who was shouting at the top of her voice: "She is going

to Stavrogin, to Stavrogin." At this point I lost patience, and cried

furiously to Pyotr Stepanovitch:

"It's all your doing, you rascal! This was what you were doing this

morning. You helped Stavrogin, you came in the carriage, you helped her

into it... it was you, you, you! Yulia Mihailovna, he is your enemy; he

will be your ruin too! Beware of him!"

And I ran headlong out of the house. I wonder myself and cannot make out

to this day how I came to say that to him. But I guessed quite right:

it had all happened almost exactly as I said, as appeared later. What

struck me most was the obviously artificial way in which he broke

the news. He had not told it at once on entering the house as an

extraordinary piece of news, but pretended that we knew without his

telling us which was impossible in so short a time. And if we had known

it, we could not possibly have refrained from mentioning it till he

introduced the subject. Besides, he could not have heard yet that the

town was "ringing with gossip" about the marshal's wife in so short a

time. Besides, he had once or twice given a vulgar, frivolous smile

as he told the story, probably considering that we were fools and

completely taken in.

But I had no thought to spare for him; the central fact I believed, and

ran from Yulia Mihailovna's, beside myself. The catastrophe cut me

to the heart. I was wounded almost to tears; perhaps I did shed

some indeed. I was at a complete loss what to do. I rushed to Stepan

Trofimovitch's, but the vexatious man still refused to open the door.

Nastasya informed me, in a reverent whisper, that he had gone to bed,

but I did not believe it. At Liza's house I succeeded in questioning the

servants. They confirmed the story of the elopement, but knew nothing

themselves. There was great commotion in the house; their mistress had

been attacked by fainting fits, and Mavriky Nikolaevitch was with her.

I did not feel it possible to ask for Mavriky Nikolaevitch. To my

inquiries about Pyotr Stepanovitch they told me that he had been in and

out continually of late, sometimes twice in the day. The servants were

sad, and showed particular respectfulness in speaking of Liza; they were

fond of her. That she was ruined, utterly ruined, I did not doubt;

but the psychological aspect of the matter I was utterly unable to

understand, especially after her scene with Stavrogin the previous day.

To run about the town and inquire at the houses of acquaintances, who

would, of course, by now have heard the news and be rejoicing at it,

seemed to me revolting, besides being humiliating for Liza. But, strange

to say, I ran to see Darya Pavlovna, though I was not admitted (no one

had been admitted into the house since the previous morning). I don't

know what I could have said to her and what made me run to her. From her

I went to her brother's. Shatov listened sullenly and in silence. I may

observe that I found him more gloomy than I had ever seen him before; he

was awfully preoccupied and seemed only to listen to me with an effort.

He said scarcely anything and began walking up and down his cell from

corner to corner, treading more noisily than usual. As I was going down

the stairs he shouted after me to go to Liputin's: "There you'll hear

everything." Yet I did not go to Liputin's, but after I'd gone a good

way towards home I turned back to Shatov's again, and, half opening the

door without going in, suggested to him laconically and with no kind of

explanation, "Won't you go to Marya Timofyevna to-day?" At this Shatov

swore at me, and I went away. I note here that I may not forget it that

he did purposely go that evening to the other end of the town to see

Marya Timofyevna, whom he had not seen for some time. He found her in

excellent health and spirits and Lebyadkin dead drunk, asleep on the

sofa in the first room. This was at nine o'clock. He told me so himself

next day when we met for a moment in the street. Before ten o'clock I

made up my mind to go to the ball, but not in the capacity of a steward

(besides my rosette had been left at Yulia Mihailovna's). I was tempted

by irresistible curiosity to listen, without asking any questions,

to what people were saying in the town about all that had happened. I

wanted, too, to have a look at Yulia Mihailovna, if only at a distance.

I reproached myself greatly that I had left her so abruptly that

afternoon.

III

All that night, with its almost grotesque incidents, and the terrible

_dénouement_ that followed in the early morning, still seems to me like a

hideous nightmare, and is, for me at least, the most painful chapter

in my chronicle. I was late for the ball, and it was destined to end

so quickly that I arrived not long before it was over. It was eleven

o'clock when I reached the entrance of the marshal's house, where the

same White Hall in which the matinée had taken place had, in spite of

the short interval between, been cleared and made ready to serve as the

chief ballroom for the whole town, as we expected, to dance in. But far

as I had been that morning from expecting the ball to be a success, I

had had no presentiment of the full truth. Not one family of the

higher circles appeared; even the subordinate officials of rather more

consequence were absent--and this was a very striking fact. As for

ladies and girls, Pyotr Stepanovitch's arguments (the duplicity of which

was obvious now) turned out to be utterly incorrect: exceedingly few

had come; to four men there was scarcely one lady--and what ladies

they were! Regimental ladies of a sort, three doctors' wives with

their daughters, two or three poor ladies from the country, the seven

daughters and the niece of the secretary whom I have mentioned already,

some wives of tradesmen, of post-office clerks and other small fry--was

this what Yulia Mihailovna expected? Half the tradespeople even were

absent. As for the men, in spite of the complete absence of all persons

of consequence, there was still a crowd of them, but they made a

doubtful and suspicious impression. There were, of course, some quiet

and respectful officers with their wives, some of the most docile

fathers of families, like that secretary, for instance, the father of

his seven daughters. All these humble, insignificant people had come, as

one of these gentlemen expressed it, because it was "inevitable." But,

on the other hand, the mass of free-and-easy people and the mass too of

those whom Pyotr Stepanovitch and I had suspected of coming in without

tickets, seemed even bigger than in the afternoon. So far they were all

sitting in the refreshment bar, and had gone straight there on arriving,

as though it were the meeting-place they had agreed upon. So at least it

seemed to me. The refreshment bar had been placed in a large room,

the last of several opening out of one another. Here Prohoritch was

installed with all the attractions of the club cuisine and with a

tempting display of drinks and dainties. I noticed several persons whose

coats were almost in rags and whose get-up was altogether suspicious and

utterly unsuitable for a ball. They had evidently been with great pains

brought to a state of partial sobriety which would not last long; and

goodness knows where they had been brought from, they were not local

people. I knew, of course, that it was part of Yulia Mihailovna's idea

that the ball should be of the most democratic character, and that "even

working people and shopmen should not be excluded if any one of that

class chanced to pay for a ticket." She could bravely utter such words

in her committee with absolute security that none of the working people

of our town, who all lived in extreme poverty, would dream of taking a

ticket. But in spite of the democratic sentiments of the committee, I

could hardly believe that such sinister-looking and shabby people could

have been admitted in the regular way. But who could have admitted them,

and with what object? Lyamshin and Liputin had already been deprived of

their steward's rosettes, though they were present at the ball, as they

were taking part in the "literary quadrille." But, to my amazement,

Liputin's place was taken by the divinity student, who had caused

the greatest scandal at the matinée by his skirmish with Stepan

Trofimovitch; and Lyamshin's was taken by Pyotr Stepanovitch himself.

What was to be looked for under the circumstances?

I tried to listen to the conversation. I was struck by the wildness

of some ideas I heard expressed. It was maintained in one group, for

instance, that Yulia Mihailovna had arranged Liza's elopement with

Stavrogin and had been paid by the latter for doing so. Even the sum

paid was mentioned. It was asserted that she had arranged the whole fête

with a view to it, and that that was the reason why half the town had

not turned up at the ball, and that Lembke himself was so upset about it

that "his mind had given way," and that, crazy as he was, "she had got

him in tow." There was a great deal of laughter too, hoarse, wild

and significant. Every one was criticising the ball, too, with great

severity, and abusing Yulia Mihailovna without ceremony. In fact it was

disorderly, incoherent, drunken and excited babble, so it was difficult

to put it together and make anything of it. At the same time there were

simple-hearted people enjoying themselves at the refreshment-bar; there

were even some ladies of the sort who are surprised and frightened at

nothing, very genial and festive, chiefly military ladies with their

husbands. They made parties at the little tables, were drinking tea, and

were very merry. The refreshment-bar made a snug refuge for almost half

of the guests. Yet in a little time all this mass of people must stream

into the ballroom. It was horrible to think of it!

Meanwhile the prince had succeeded in arranging three skimpy quadrilles

in the White Hall. The young ladies were dancing, while their parents

were enjoying watching them. But many of these respectable persons had

already begun to think how they could, after giving their girls a treat,

get off in good time before "the trouble began." Absolutely every one

was convinced that it certainly would begin. It would be difficult for

me to describe Yulia Mihailovna's state of mind. I did not talk to her

though I went close up to her. She did not respond to the bow I made her

on entering; she did not notice me (really did not notice). There was a

painful look in her face and a contemptuous and haughty though restless

and agitated expression in her eyes. She controlled herself with evident

suffering--for whose sake, with what object? She certainly ought to have

gone away, still more to have got her husband away, and she remained!

From her face one could see that her eyes were "fully opened," and

that it was useless for her to expect any thing more. She did not even

summon Pyotr Stepanovitch (he seemed to avoid her; I saw him in the

refreshment-room, he was extremely lively). But she remained at the ball

and did not let Andrey Antonovitch leave her side for a moment. Oh, up

to the very last moment, even that morning she would have repudiated any

hint about his health with genuine indignation. But now her eyes were

to be opened on this subject too. As for me, I thought from the first

glance that Andrey Antonovitch looked worse than he had done in the

morning. He seemed to be plunged into a sort of oblivion and hardly

to know where he was. Sometimes he looked about him with unexpected

severity--at me, for instance, twice. Once he tried to say something;

he began loudly and audibly but did not finish the sentence, throwing

a modest old clerk who happened to be near him almost into a panic. But

even this humble section of the assembly held sullenly and timidly

aloof from Yulia Mihailovna and at the same time turned upon her husband

exceedingly strange glances, open and staring, quite out of keeping with

their habitually submissive demeanour.

"Yes, that struck me, and I suddenly began to guess about Andrey

Antonovitch," Yulia Mihailovna confessed to me afterwards.

Yes, she was to blame again! Probably when after my departure she had

settled with Pyotr Stepanovitch that there should be a ball and that

she should be present she must have gone again to the study where Andrey

Antonovitch was sitting, utterly "shattered" by the matinée; must again

have used all her fascinations to persuade him to come with her. But

what misery she must have been in now! And yet she did not go away.

Whether it was pride or simply she lost her head, I do not know. In

spite of her haughtiness, she attempted with smiles and humiliation

to enter into conversation with some ladies, but they were confused,

confined themselves to distrustful monosyllables, "Yes" and "No," and

evidently avoided her.

The only person of undoubted consequence who was present at the ball was

that distinguished general whom I have described already, the one who

after Stavrogin's duel with Gaganov opened the door to public impatience

at the marshal's wife's. He walked with an air of dignity through the

rooms, looked about, and listened, and tried to appear as though he had

come rather for the sake of observation than for the sake of enjoying

himself.... He ended by establishing himself beside Yulia Mihailovna

and not moving a step away from her, evidently trying to keep up her

spirits, and reassure her. He certainly was a most kind-hearted man,

of very high rank, and so old that even compassion from him was not

wounding. But to admit to herself that this old gossip was venturing to

pity her and almost to protect her, knowing that he was doing her honour

by his presence, was very vexatious. The general stayed by her and never

ceased chattering.

"They say a town can't go on without seven righteous men... seven, I

think it is, I am not sure of the number fixed.... I don't know how many

of these seven, the certified righteous of the town... have the honour

of being present at your ball. Yet in spite of their presence I begin

to feel unsafe. _Vous me pardonnez, charmante dame, n'est-ce pas?_ I speak

allegorically, but I went into the refreshment-room and I am glad I

escaped alive.... Our priceless Prohoritch is not in his place there,

and I believe his bar will be destroyed before morning. But I am

laughing. I am only waiting to see what the 'literary quadrille' is

going to be like, and then home to bed. You must excuse a gouty old

fellow. I go early to bed, and I would advise you too to go 'by-by,' as

they say _aux enfants._ I've come, you know, to have a look at the pretty

girls... whom, of course, I could meet nowhere in such profusion as

here. They all live beyond the river and I don't drive out so far.

There's a wife of an officer... in the chasseurs I believe he is...

who is distinctly pretty, distinctly, and... she knows it herself. I've

talked to the sly puss; she is a sprightly one... and the girls too are

fresh-looking; but that's all, there's nothing but freshness. Still,

it's a pleasure to look at them. There are some rosebuds, but their

lips are thick. As a rule there's an irregularity about female beauty

in Russia, and... they are a little like buns.... _vous me pardonnez,

n'est-ce pas?_... with good eyes, however, laughing eyes.... These

rose buds are charming for two years when they are young... even for

three... then they broaden out and are spoilt forever... producing

in their husbands that deplorable indifference which does so much to

promote the woman movement... that is, if I understand it correctly....

H'm! It's a fine hall; the rooms are not badly decorated. It might be

worse. The music might be much worse.... I don't say it ought to have

been. What makes a bad impression is that there are so few ladies. I say

nothing about the dresses. It's bad that that chap in the grey trousers

should dare to dance the cancan so openly. I can forgive him if he does

it in the gaiety of his heart, and since he is the local chemist....

Still, eleven o'clock is a bit early even for chemists. There were two

fellows fighting in the refreshment-bar and they weren't turned out. At

eleven o'clock people ought to be turned out for fighting, whatever the

standard of manners.... Three o'clock is a different matter; then one

has to make concessions to public opinion--if only this ball survives

till three o'clock. Varvara Petrovna has not kept her word, though, and

hasn't sent flowers. H'm! She has no thoughts for flowers, _pauvre mère!_

And poor Liza! Have you heard? They say it's a mysterious story...

and Stavrogin is to the front again.... H'm! I would have gone home

to bed... I can hardly keep my eyes open. But when is this 'literary

quadrille' coming on?"

At last the "literary quadrille" began. Whenever of late there had been

conversation in the town on the ball it had invariably turned on this

literary quadrille, and as no one could imagine what it would be like,

it aroused extraordinary curiosity. Nothing could be more unfavourable

to its chance of success, and great was the disappointment.

The side doors of the White Hall were thrown open and several masked

figures appeared. The public surrounded them eagerly. All the occupants

of the refreshment-bar trooped to the last man into the hall. The masked

figures took their places for the dance. I succeeded in making my way to

the front and installed myself just behind Yulia Mihailovna, Von Lembke,

and the general. At this point Pyotr Stepanovitch, who had kept away

till that time, skipped up to Yulia Mihailovna.

"I've been in the refreshment-room all this time, watching," he

whispered, with the air of a guilty schoolboy, which he, however,

assumed on purpose to irritate her even more. She turned crimson with

anger.

"You might give up trying to deceive me now at least, insolent man!"

broke from her almost aloud, so that it was heard by other people. Pyotr

Stepanovitch skipped away extremely well satisfied with himself.

It would be difficult to imagine a more pitiful, vulgar, dull and

insipid allegory than this "literary quadrille." Nothing could be

imagined less appropriate to our local society. Yet they say it was

Karmazinov's idea. It was Liputin indeed who arranged it with the help

of the lame teacher who had been at the meeting at Virginsky's. But

Karmazinov had given the idea and had, it was said, meant to dress up

and to take a special and prominent part in it. The quadrille was

made up of six couples of masked figures, who were not in fancy dress

exactly, for their clothes were like every one else's. Thus, for

instance, one short and elderly gentleman wearing a dress-coat--in fact,

dressed like every one else--wore a venerable grey beard, tied on (and this

constituted his disguise). As he danced he pounded up and down, taking

tiny and rapid steps on the same spot with a stolid expression of

countenance. He gave vent to sounds in a subdued but husky bass, and

this huskiness was meant to suggest one of the well-known papers.

Opposite this figure danced two giants, X and Z, and these letters were

pinned on their coats, but what the letters meant remained unexplained.

"Honest Russian thought" was represented by a middle-aged gentleman in

spectacles, dress-coat and gloves, and wearing fetters (real fetters).

Under his arm he had a portfolio containing papers relating to some

"case." To convince the sceptical, a letter from abroad testifying to

the honesty of "honest Russian thought" peeped out of his pocket. All

this was explained by the stewards, as the letter which peeped out of

his pocket could not be read. "Honest Russian thought" had his right

hand raised and in it held a glass as though he wanted to propose a

toast. In a line with him on each side tripped a crop-headed Nihilist

girl; while _vis-à-vis_ danced another elderly gentleman in a dress-coat

with a heavy cudgel in his hand. He was meant to represent a formidable

periodical (not a Petersburg one), and seemed to be saying, "I'll

pound you to a jelly." But in spite of his cudgel he could not bear the

spectacles of "honest Russian thought" fixed upon him and tried to look

away, and when he did the _pas de deux,_ he twisted, turned, and did not

know what to do with himself--so terrible, probably, were the stings

of his conscience! I don't remember all the absurd tricks they played,

however; it was all in the same style, so that I felt at last painfully

ashamed. And this same expression, as it were, of shame was reflected in

the whole public, even on the most sullen figures that had come out of

the refreshment-room. For some time all were silent and gazed with angry

perplexity. When a man is ashamed he generally begins to get angry and

is disposed to be cynical. By degrees a murmur arose in the audience.

"What's the meaning of it?" a man who had come in from the

refreshment-room muttered in one of the groups.

"It's silly."

"It's something literary. It's a criticism of the _Voice_."

"What's that to me?"

From another group:

"Asses!"

"No, they are not asses; it's we who are the asses."

"Why are you an ass?"

"I am not an ass."

"Well, if you are not, I am certainly not."

From a third group:

"We ought to give them a good smacking and send them flying."

"Pull down the hall!"

From a fourth group:

"I wonder the Lembkes are not ashamed to look on!"

"Why should they be ashamed? You are not."

"Yes, I am ashamed, and he is the governor."

"And you are a pig."

"I've never seen such a commonplace ball in my life," a lady observed

viciously, quite close to Yulia Mihailovna, obviously with the intention

of being overheard. She was a stout lady of forty with rouge on her

cheeks, wearing a bright-coloured silk dress. Almost every one in the

town knew her, but no one received her. She was the widow of a civil

councillor, who had left her a wooden house and a small pension; but

she lived well and kept horses. Two months previously she had called on

Yulia Mihailovna, but the latter had not received her.

"That might have been foreseen," she added, looking insolently into

Yulia Mihailovna's face.

"If you could foresee it, why did you come?" Yulia Mihailovna could not

resist saying.

"Because I was too simple," the sprightly lady answered instantly, up in

arms and eager for the fray; but the general intervened.

_"Chère dame"_--he bent over to Yulia Mihailovna--"you'd really better be

going. We are only in their way and they'll enjoy themselves thoroughly

without us. You've done your part, you've opened the ball, now leave

them in peace. And Andrey Antonovitch doesn't seem to be feeling quite

satisfactorily.... To avoid trouble."

But it was too late.

All through the quadrille Andrey Antonovitch gazed at the dancers with a

sort of angry perplexity, and when he heard the comments of the audience

he began looking about him uneasily. Then for the first time he caught

sight of some of the persons who had come from the refreshment-room;

there was an expression of extreme wonder in his face. Suddenly there

was a loud roar of laughter at a caper that was cut in the quadrille.

The editor of the "menacing periodical, not a Petersburg one," who was

dancing with the cudgel in his hands, felt utterly unable to endure

the spectacled gaze of "honest Russian thought," and not knowing how to

escape it, suddenly in the last figure advanced to meet him standing on

his head, which was meant, by the way, to typify the continual turning

upside down of common sense by the menacing non-Petersburg gazette. As

Lyamshin was the only one who could walk standing on his head, he had

undertaken to represent the editor with the cudgel. Yulia Mihailovna had

had no idea that anyone was going to walk on his head. "They concealed

that from me, they concealed it," she repeated to me afterwards in

despair and indignation. The laughter from the crowd was, of course,

provoked not by the allegory, which interested no one, but simply by

a man's walking on his head in a swallow-tail coat. Lembke flew into a

rage and shook with fury.

"Rascal!" he cried, pointing to Lyamshin, "take hold of the scoundrel,

turn him over... turn his legs... his head... so that his head's up...

up!"

Lyamshin jumped on to his feet. The laughter grew louder.

"Turn out all the scoundrels who are laughing!" Lembke prescribed

suddenly.

There was an angry roar and laughter in the crowd.

"You can't do like that, your Excellency."

"You mustn't abuse the public."

"You are a fool yourself!" a voice cried suddenly from a corner.

"Filibusters!" shouted someone from the other end of the room.

Lembke looked round quickly at the shout and turned pale. A vacant smile

came on to his lips, as though he suddenly understood and remembered

something.

"Gentlemen," said Yulia Mihailovna, addressing the crowd which was

pressing round them, as she drew her husband away--"gentlemen, excuse

Andrey Antonovitch. Andrey Antonovitch is unwell... excuse... forgive

him, gentlemen."

I positively heard her say "forgive him." It all happened very quickly.

But I remember for a fact that a section of the public rushed out of

the hall immediately after those words of Yulia Mihailovna's as though

panic-stricken. I remember one hysterical, tearful feminine shriek:

"Ach, the same thing again!"

And in the retreat of the guests, which was almost becoming a crush,

another bomb exploded exactly as in the afternoon.

"Fire! All the riverside quarter is on fire!"

I don't remember where this terrible cry rose first, whether it was

first raised in the hall, or whether someone ran upstairs from the

entry, but it was followed by such alarm that I can't attempt to

describe it. More than half the guests at the ball came from the quarter

beyond the river, and were owners or occupiers of wooden houses in that

district. They rushed to the windows, pulled back the curtains in a

flash, and tore down the blinds. The riverside was in flames. The fire,

it is true, was only beginning, but it was in flames in three separate

places--and that was what was alarming.

"Arson! The Shpigulin men!" roared the crowd.

I remember some very characteristic exclamations:

"I've had a presentiment in my heart that there'd be arson, I've had a

presentiment of it these last few days!"

"The Shpigulin men, the Shpigulin men, no one else!"

"We were all lured here on purpose to set fire to it!"

This last most amazing exclamation came from a woman; it was an

unintentional involuntary shriek of a housewife whose goods were

burning. Every one rushed for the door. I won't describe the crush in

the vestibule over sorting out cloaks, shawls, and pelisses, the shrieks

of the frightened women, the weeping of the young ladies. I doubt

whether there was any theft, but it was no wonder that in such disorder

some went away without their wraps because they were unable to find

them, and this grew into a legend with many additions, long preserved in

the town. Lembke and Yulia Mihailovna were almost crushed by the crowd

at the doors.

"Stop, every one! Don't let anyone out!" yelled Lembke, stretching out

his arms menacingly towards the crowding people.

"Every one without exception to be strictly searched at once!"

A storm of violent oaths rose from the crowd.

"Andrey Antonovitch! Andrey Antonovitch!" cried Yulia Mihailovna in

complete despair.

"Arrest her first!" shouted her husband, pointing his finger at her

threateningly. "Search her first! The ball was arranged with a view to

the fire...."

She screamed and fell into a swoon. (Oh, there was no doubt of its being

a real one.) The general, the prince, and I rushed to her assistance;

there were others, even among the ladies, who helped us at that

difficult moment. We carried the unhappy woman out of this hell to her

carriage, but she only regained consciousness as she reached the house,

and her first utterance was about Andrey Antonovitch again. With the

destruction of all her fancies, the only thing left in her mind was

Andrey Antonovitch. They sent for a doctor. I remained with her for a

whole hour; the prince did so too. The general, in an access of generous

feeling (though he had been terribly scared), meant to remain all night

"by the bedside of the unhappy lady," but within ten minutes he fell

asleep in an arm-chair in the drawing-room while waiting for the doctor,

and there we left him.

The chief of the police, who had hurried from the ball to the fire, had

succeeded in getting Andrey Antonovitch out of the hall after us, and

attempted to put him into Yulia Mihailovna's carriage, trying all he

could to persuade his Excellency "to seek repose." But I don't know

why he did not insist. Andrey Antonovitch, of course, would not hear of

repose, and was set on going to the fire; but that was not a sufficient

reason. It ended in his taking him to the fire in his droshky. He told

us afterwards that Lembke was gesticulating all the way and "shouting

orders that it was impossible to obey owing to their unusualness." It

was officially reported later on that his Excellency had at that time

been in a delirious condition "owing to a sudden fright."

There is no need to describe how the ball ended. A few dozen rowdy

fellows, and with them some ladies, remained in the hall. There were

no police present. They would not let the orchestra go, and beat

the musicians who attempted to leave. By morning they had pulled all

Prohoritch's stall to pieces, had drunk themselves senseless, danced the

Kamarinsky in its unexpurgated form, made the rooms in a shocking mess,

and only towards daybreak part of this hopelessly drunken rabble reached

the scene of the fire to make fresh disturbances there. The other part

spent the night in the rooms dead drunk, with disastrous consequences

to the velvet sofas and the floor. Next morning, at the earliest

possibility, they were dragged out by their legs into the street. So

ended the fête for the benefit of the governesses of our province.

IV

The fire frightened the inhabitants of the riverside just because it

was evidently a case of arson. It was curious that at the first cry of

"fire" another cry was raised that the Shpigulin men had done it. It

is now well known that three Shpigulin men really did have a share in

setting fire to the town, but that was all; all the other factory

hands were completely acquitted, not only officially but also by public

opinion. Besides those three rascals (of whom one has been caught and

confessed and the other two have so far escaped), Fedka the convict

undoubtedly had a hand in the arson. That is all that is known for

certain about the fire till now; but when it comes to conjectures it's

a very different matter. What had led these three rascals to do it? Had

they been instigated by anyone? It is very difficult to answer all these

questions even now.

Owing to the strong wind, the fact that the houses at the riverside were

almost all wooden, and that they had been set fire to in three

places, the fire spread quickly and enveloped the whole quarter with

extraordinary rapidity. (The fire burnt, however, only at two ends;

at the third spot it was extinguished almost as soon as it began to

burn--of which later.) But the Petersburg and Moscow papers exaggerated

our calamity. Not more than a quarter, roughly speaking, of the

riverside district was burnt down; possibly less indeed. Our fire

brigade, though it was hardly adequate to the size and population of the

town, worked with great promptitude and devotion. But it would not

have been of much avail, even with the zealous co-operation of the

inhabitants, if the wind had not suddenly dropped towards morning. When

an hour after our flight from the ball I made my way to the riverside,

the fire was at its height. A whole street parallel with the river was

in flames. It was as light as day. I won't describe the fire; every one

in Russia knows what it looks like. The bustle and crush was immense in

the lanes adjoining the burning street. The inhabitants, fully expecting

the fire to reach their houses, were hauling out their belongings, but

had not yet left their dwellings, and were waiting meanwhile sitting

on their boxes and feather beds under their windows. Part of the male

population were hard at work ruthlessly chopping down fences and even

whole huts which were near the fire and on the windward side. None

were crying except the children, who had been waked out of their sleep,

though the women who had dragged out their chattels were lamenting

in sing-song voices. Those who had not finished their task were still

silent, busily carrying out their goods. Sparks and embers were carried

a long way in all directions. People put them out as best they could.

Some helped to put the fire out while others stood about, admiring it. A

great fire at night always has a thrilling and exhilarating effect.

This is what explains the attraction of fireworks. But in that case the

artistic regularity with which the fire is presented and the complete

lack of danger give an impression of lightness and playfulness like the

effect of a glass of champagne. A real conflagration is a very different

matter. Then the horror and a certain sense of personal danger,

together with the exhilarating effect of a fire at night, produce on the

spectator (though of course not in the householder whose goods are being

burnt) a certain concussion of the brain and, as it were, a challenge to

those destructive instincts which, alas, lie hidden in every heart, even

that of the mildest and most domestic little clerk.... This sinister

sensation is almost always fascinating. "I really don't know whether one

can look at a fire without a certain pleasure." This is word for word

what Stepan Trofimovitch said to me one night on returning home after he

had happened to witness a fire and was still under the influence of the

spectacle. Of course, the very man who enjoys the spectacle will rush

into the fire himself to save a child or an old woman; but that is

altogether a different matter.

Following in the wake of the crowd of sightseers, I succeeded, without

asking questions, in reaching the chief centre of danger, where at last

I saw Lembke, whom I was seeking at Yulia Mihailovna's request. His

position was strange and extraordinary. He was standing on the ruins of

a fence. Thirty paces to the left of him rose the black skeleton of a

two-storied house which had almost burnt out. It had holes instead of

windows at each story, its roof had fallen in, and the flames were still

here and there creeping among the charred beams. At the farther end

of the courtyard, twenty paces away, the lodge, also a two-storied

building, was beginning to burn, and the firemen were doing their utmost

to save it. On the right the firemen and the people were trying to save

a rather large wooden building which was not actually burning, though

it had caught fire several times and was inevitably bound to be burnt in

the end. Lembke stood facing the lodge, shouting and gesticulating. He

was giving orders which no one attempted to carry out. It seemed to me

that every one had given him up as hopeless and left him. Anyway,

though every one in the vast crowd of all classes, among whom there

were gentlemen, and even the cathedral priest, was listening to him

with curiosity and wonder, no one spoke to him or tried to get him away.

Lembke, with a pale face and glittering eyes, was uttering the most

amazing things. To complete the picture, he had lost his hat and was

bareheaded.

"It's all incendiarism! It's nihilism! If anything is burning, it's

nihilism!" I heard almost with horror; and though there was nothing to

be surprised at, yet actual madness, when one sees it, always gives one

a shock.

"Your Excellency," said a policeman, coming up to him, "what if you were

to try the repose of home?... It's dangerous for your Excellency even to

stand here."

This policeman, as I heard afterwards, had been told off by the chief

of police to watch over Andrey Antonovitch, to do his utmost to get him

home, and in case of danger even to use force--a task evidently beyond

the man's power.

"They will wipe away the tears of the people whose houses have been

burnt, but they will burn down the town. It's all the work of four

scoundrels, four and a half! Arrest the scoundrel! He worms himself into

the honour of families. They made use of the governesses to burn down

the houses. It's vile, vile! Aie, what's he about?" he shouted, suddenly

noticing a fireman at the top of the burning lodge, under whom the roof

had almost burnt away and round whom the flames were beginning to flare

up. "Pull him down! Pull him down! He will fall, he will catch fire, put

him out!... What is he doing there?"

"He is putting the fire out, your Excellency."

"Not likely. The fire is in the minds of men and not in the roofs of

houses. Pull him down and give it up! Better give it up, much better!

Let it put itself out. Aie, who is crying now? An old woman! It's an old

woman shouting. Why have they forgotten the old woman?"

There actually was an old woman crying on the ground floor of the

burning lodge. She was an old creature of eighty, a relation of the

shopkeeper who owned the house. But she had not been forgotten; she had

gone back to the burning house while it was still possible, with the

insane idea of rescuing her feather bed from a corner room which was

still untouched. Choking with the smoke and screaming with the heat, for

the room was on fire by the time she reached it, she was still trying

with her decrepit hands to squeeze her feather bed through a broken

window pane. Lembke rushed to her assistance. Every one saw him run up

to the window, catch hold of one corner of the feather bed and try with

all his might to pull it out. As ill luck would have it, a board fell at

that moment from the roof and hit the unhappy governor. It did not

kill him, it merely grazed him on the neck as it fell, but Andrey

Antonovitch's career was over, among us at least; the blow knocked him

off his feet and he sank on the ground unconscious.

The day dawned at last, gloomy and sullen. The fire was abating; the

wind was followed by a sudden calm, and then a fine drizzling rain fell.

I was by that time in another part, some distance from where Lembke had

fallen, and here I overheard very strange conversations in the crowd. A

strange fact had come to light. On the very outskirts of the quarter,

on a piece of waste land beyond the kitchen gardens, not less than fifty

paces from any other buildings, there stood a little wooden house which

had only lately been built, and this solitary house had been on fire at

the very beginning, almost before any other. Even had it burnt down, it

was so far from other houses that no other building in the town could

have caught fire from it, and, vice versa, if the whole riverside

had been burnt to the ground, that house might have remained intact,

whatever the wind had been. It followed that it had caught fire

separately and independently and therefore not accidentally. But the

chief point was that it was not burnt to the ground, and at daybreak

strange things were discovered within it. The owner of this new house,

who lived in the neighbourhood, rushed up as soon as he saw it in flames

and with the help of his neighbours pulled apart a pile of faggots which

had been heaped up by the side wall and set fire to. In this way he

saved the house. But there were lodgers in the house--the captain, who

was well known in the town, his sister, and their elderly servant, and

these three persons--the captain, his sister, and their servant--had

been murdered and apparently robbed in the night. (It was here that the

chief of police had gone while Lembke was rescuing the feather bed.)

By morning the news had spread and an immense crowd of all classes, even

the riverside people who had been burnt out had flocked to the waste

land where the new house stood. It was difficult to get there, so dense

was the crowd. I was told at once that the captain had been found lying

dressed on the bench with his throat cut, and that he must have been

dead drunk when he was killed, so that he had felt nothing, and he had

"bled like a bull"; that his sister Marya Timofeyevna had been "stabbed

all over" with a knife and she was lying on the floor in the doorway, so

that probably she had been awake and had fought and struggled with the

murderer. The servant, who had also probably been awake, had her skull

broken. The owner of the house said that the captain had come to see him

the morning before, and that in his drunken bragging he had shown him a

lot of money, as much as two hundred roubles. The captain's shabby old

green pocket-book was found empty on the floor, but Marya Timofeyevna's

box had not been touched, and the silver setting of the ikon had not

been removed either; the captain's clothes, too, had not been disturbed.

It was evident that the thief had been in a hurry and was a man familiar

with the captain's circumstances, who had come only for money and knew

where it was kept. If the owner of the house had not run up at that

moment the burning faggot stack would certainly have set fire to the

house and "it would have been difficult to find out from the charred

corpses how they had died."

So the story was told. One other fact was added: that the person who

had taken this house for the Lebyadkins was no other than Mr. Stavrogin,

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, the son of Varvara Petrovna. He had come

himself to take it and had had much ado to persuade the owner to let

it, as the latter had intended to use it as a tavern; but Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch was ready to give any rent he asked and had paid for six

months in advance.

"The fire wasn't an accident," I heard said in the crowd.

But the majority said nothing. People's faces were sullen, but I did

not see signs of much indignation. People persisted, however, in

gossiping about Stavrogin, saying that the murdered woman was his wife;

that on the previous day he had "dishonourably" abducted a young lady

belonging to the best family in the place, the daughter of Madame

Drozdov, and that a complaint was to be lodged against him in

Petersburg; and that his wife had been murdered evidently that he might

marry the young lady. Skvoreshniki was not more than a mile and a half

away, and I remember I wondered whether I should not let them know the

position of affairs. I did not notice, however, that there was anyone

egging the crowd on and I don't want to accuse people falsely, though I

did see and recognised at once in the crowd at the fire two or three

of the rowdy lot I had seen in the refreshment-room. I particularly

remember one thin, tall fellow, a cabinet-maker, as I found out later,

with an emaciated face and a curly head, black as though grimed with

soot. He was not drunk, but in contrast to the gloomy passivity of the

crowd seemed beside himself with excitement. He kept addressing the

people, though I don't remember his words; nothing coherent that he said

was longer than "I say, lads, what do you say to this? Are things to go

on like this?" and so saying he waved his arms.

CHAPTER III. A ROMANCE ENDED

I

FROM THE LARGE BALLROOM of Skvoreshniki (the room in which the last

interview with Varvara Petrovna and Stepan Trofimovitch had taken place)

the fire could be plainly seen. At daybreak, soon after five in the

morning, Liza was standing at the farthest window on the right looking

intently at the fading glow. She was alone in the room. She was wearing

the dress she had worn the day before at the matinée--a very smart light

green dress covered with lace, but crushed and put on carelessly and

with haste. Suddenly noticing that some of the hooks were undone in

front she flushed, hurriedly set it right, snatched up from a chair the

red shawl she had flung down when she came in the day before, and put

it round her neck. Some locks of her luxuriant hair had come loose and

showed below the shawl on her right shoulder. Her face looked weary and

careworn, but her eyes glowed under her frowning brows. She went up to

the window again and pressed her burning forehead against the cold pane.

The door opened and Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch came in.

"I've sent a messenger on horseback," he said. "In ten minutes we shall

hear all about it, meantime the servants say that part of the riverside

quarter has been burnt down, on the right side of the bridge near the

quay. It's been burning since eleven o'clock; now the fire is going

down."

He did not go near the window, but stood three steps behind her; she did

not turn towards him.

"It ought to have been light an hour ago by the calendar, and it's still

almost night," she said irritably.

"'Calendars always tell lies,'" he observed with a polite smile, but,

a little ashamed; he made haste to add: "It's dull to live by the

calendar, Liza."

And he relapsed into silence, vexed at the ineptitude of the second

sentence. Liza gave a wry smile.

"You are in such a melancholy mood that you cannot even find words to

speak to me. But you need not trouble, there's a point in what you said.

I always live by the calendar. Every step I take is regulated by the

calendar. Does that surprise you?"

She turned quickly from the window and sat down in a low chair.

"You sit down, too, please. We haven't long to be together and I want to

say anything I like.... Why shouldn't you, too, say anything you like?"

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch sat beside her and softly, almost timidly took

her hand.

"What's the meaning of this tone, Liza? Where has it suddenly sprung

from? What do you mean by 'we haven't long to be together'? That's the

second mysterious phrase since you waked, half an hour ago."

"You are beginning to reckon up my mysterious phrases!" she laughed.

"Do you remember I told you I was a dead woman when I came in yesterday?

That you thought fit to forget. To forget or not to notice."

"I don't remember, Liza. Why dead? You must live."

"And is that all? You've quite lost your flow of words. I've lived my

hour and that's enough. Do you remember Christopher Ivanovitch?"

"No I don't," he answered, frowning.

"Christopher Ivanovitch at Lausanne? He bored you dreadfully. He always

used to open the door and say, 'I've come for one minute,' and then stay

the whole day. I don't want to be like Christopher Ivanovitch and stay

the whole day."

A look of pain came into his face.

"Liza, it grieves me, this unnatural language. This affectation must

hurt you, too. What's it for? What's the object of it?"

His eyes glowed.

"Liza," he cried, "I swear I love you now more than yesterday when you

came to me!"

"What a strange declaration! Why bring in yesterday and to-day and these

comparisons?"

"You won't leave me," he went on, almost with despair; "we will go away

together, to-day, won't we? Won't we?"

"Aie, don't squeeze my hand so painfully! Where could we go together

to-day? To 'rise again' somewhere? No, we've made experiments enough...

and it's too slow for me; and I am not fit for it; it's too exalted

for me. If we are to go, let it be to Moscow, to pay visits and

entertain--that's my ideal you know; even in Switzerland I didn't

disguise from you what I was like. As we can't go to Moscow and pay

visits since you are married, it's no use talking of that."

"Liza! What happened yesterday!"

"What happened is over!"

"That's impossible! That's cruel!"

"What if it is cruel? You must bear it if it is cruel."

"You are avenging yourself on me for yesterday's caprice," he muttered

with an angry smile. Liza flushed.

"What a mean thought!"

"Why then did you bestow on me... so great a happiness? Have I the right

to know?"

"No, you must manage without rights; don't aggravate the meanness of

your supposition by stupidity. You are not lucky to-day. By the way, you

surely can't be afraid of public opinion and that you will be blamed

for this 'great happiness'? If that's it, for God's sake don't alarm

yourself. It's not your doing at all and you are not responsible to

anyone. When I opened your door yesterday, you didn't even know who was

coming in. It was simply my caprice, as you expressed it just now,

and nothing more! You can look every one in the face boldly and

triumphantly!"

"Your words, that laugh, have been making me feel cold with horror for

the last hour. That 'happiness' of which you speak frantically is

worth... everything to me. How can I lose you now? I swear I loved you

less yesterday. Why are you taking everything from me to-day? Do you

know what it has cost me, this new hope? I've paid for it with life."

"Your own life or another's?"

He got up quickly.

"What does that mean?" he brought out, looking at her steadily.

"Have you paid for it with your life or with mine? is what I mean. Or

have you lost all power of understanding?" cried Liza, flushing. "Why

did you start up so suddenly? Why do you stare at me with such a look?

You frighten me. What is it you are afraid of all the time? I noticed

some time ago that you were afraid and you are now, this very minute...

Good heavens, how pale you are!"

"If you know anything, Liza, I swear I don't... and I wasn't talking of

_that_ just now when I said that I had paid for it with life...."

"I don't understand you," she brought out, faltering apprehensively.

At last a slow brooding smile came on to his lips. He slowly sat down,

put his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with his hands.

"A bad dream and delirium.... We were talking of two different things."

"I don't know what you were talking about.... Do you mean to say you did

not know yesterday that I should leave you to-day, did you know or not?

Don't tell a lie, did you or not?"

"I did," he said softly.

"Well then, what would you have? You knew and yet you accepted 'that

moment' for yourself. Aren't we quits?"

"Tell me the whole truth," he cried in intense distress. "When you

opened my door yesterday, did you know yourself that it was only for one

hour?"

She looked at him with hatred.

"Really, the most sensible person can ask most amazing questions. And

why are you so uneasy? Can it be vanity that a woman should leave you

first instead of your leaving her? Do you know, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch,

since I've been with you I've discovered that you are very generous to

me, and it's just that I can't endure from you."

He got up from his seat and took a few steps about the room.

"Very well, perhaps it was bound to end so.... But how can it all have

happened?"

"That's a question to worry about! Especially as you know the answer

yourself perfectly well, and understand it better than anyone on earth,

and were counting on it yourself. I am a young lady, my heart has been

trained on the opera, that's how it all began, that's the solution."

"No."

"There is nothing in it to fret your vanity. It is all the absolute

truth. It began with a fine moment which was too much for me to bear.

The day before yesterday, when I 'insulted' you before every one and you

answered me so chivalrously, I went home and guessed at once that

you were running away from me because you were married, and not from

contempt for me which, as a fashionable young lady, I dreaded more than

anything. I understood that it was for my sake, for me, mad as I was,

that you ran away. You see how I appreciate your generosity. Then Pyotr

Stepanovitch skipped up to me and explained it all to me at once. He

revealed to me that you were dominated by a 'great idea,' before which

he and I were as nothing, but yet that I was a stumbling-block in your

path. He brought himself in, he insisted that we three should work

together, and said the most fantastic things about a boat and about

maple-wood oars out of some Russian song. I complimented him and told

him he was a poet, which he swallowed as the real thing. And as apart

from him I had known long before that I had not the strength to do

anything for long, I made up my mind on the spot. Well, that's all and

quite enough, and please let us have no more explanations. We might

quarrel. Don't be afraid of anyone, I take it all on myself. I am horrid

and capricious, I was fascinated by that operatic boat, I am a young

lady... but you know I did think that you were dreadfully in love

with me. Don't despise the poor fool, and don't laugh at the tear that

dropped just now. I am awfully given to crying with self-pity. Come,

that's enough, that's enough. I am no good for anything and you are

no good for anything; it's as bad for both of us, so let's comfort

ourselves with that. Anyway, it eases our vanity."

"Dream and delirium," cried Stavrogin, wringing his hands, and pacing

about the room. "Liza, poor child, what have you done to yourself?"

"I've burnt myself in a candle, nothing more. Surely you are not crying,

too? You should show less feeling and better breeding...."

"Why, why did you come to me?"

"Don't you understand what a ludicrous position you put yourself in in

the eyes of the world by asking such questions?"

"Why have you ruined yourself, so grotesquely and so stupidly, and

what's to be done now?"

"And this is Stavrogin, 'the vampire Stavrogin,' as you are called by a

lady here who is in love with you! Listen! I have told you already, I've

put all my life into one hour and I am at peace. Do the same with

yours... though you've no need to: you have plenty of 'hours' and

'moments' of all sorts before you."

"As many as you; I give you my solemn word, not one hour more than you!"

He was still walking up and down and did not see the rapid penetrating

glance she turned upon him, in which there seemed a dawning hope. But

the light died away at the same moment.

"If you knew what it costs me that I can't be sincere at this moment,

Liza, if I could only tell you..."

"Tell me? You want to tell me something, to me? God save me from your

secrets!" she broke in almost in terror. He stopped and waited uneasily.

"I ought to confess that ever since those days in Switzerland I have

had a strong feeling that you have something awful, loathsome, some

bloodshed on your conscience... and yet something that would make you

look very ridiculous. Beware of telling me, if it's true: I shall laugh

you to scorn. I shall laugh at you for the rest of your life.... Aie,

you are turning pale again? I won't, I won't, I'll go at once." She

jumped up from her chair with a movement of disgust and contempt.

"Torture me, punish me, vent your spite on me," he cried in despair.

"You have the full right. I knew I did not love you and yet I ruined

you! Yes, I accepted the moment for my own; I had a hope... I've had

it a long time... my last hope.... I could not resist the radiance that

flooded my heart when you came in to me yesterday, of yourself, alone,

of your own accord. I suddenly believed.... Perhaps I have faith in it

still."

"I will repay such noble frankness by being as frank. I don't want to be

a Sister of Mercy for you. Perhaps I really may become a nurse unless I

happen appropriately to die to-day; but if I do I won't be your nurse,

though, of course, you need one as much as any crippled creature. I

always fancied that you would take me to some place where there was a

huge wicked spider, big as a man, and we should spend our lives looking

at it and being afraid of it. That's how our love would spend itself.

Appeal to Dashenka; she will go with you anywhere you like."

"Can't you help thinking of her even now?"

"Poor little spaniel! Give her my greetings. Does she know that even in

Switzerland you had fixed on her for your old age? What prudence! What

foresight! Aie, who's that?"

At the farther end of the room a door opened a crack; a head was thrust

in and vanished again hurriedly.

"Is that you, Alexey Yegorytch?" asked Stavrogin.

"No, it's only I." Pyotr Stepanovitch thrust himself half in again.

"How do you do, Lizaveta Nikolaevna? Good morning, anyway. I guessed I

should find you both in this room. I have come for one moment literally,

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch. I was anxious to have a couple of words with

you at all costs... absolutely necessary... only a few words!"

Stavrogin moved towards him but turned back to Liza at the third step.

"If you hear anything directly, Liza, let me tell you I am to blame for

it!"

She started and looked at him in dismay; but he hurriedly went out.

II

The room from which Pyotr Stepanovitch had peeped in was a large

oval vestibule. Alexey Yegorytch had been sitting there before Pyotr

Stepanovitch came in, but the latter sent him away. Stavrogin closed the

door after him and stood expectant. Pyotr Stepanovitch looked rapidly

and searchingly at him.

"Well?"

"If you know already," said Pyotr Stepanovitch hurriedly, his eyes

looking as though they would dive into Stavrogin's soul, "then, of

course, we are none of us to blame, above all not you, for it's such a

concatenation... such a coincidence of events... in brief, you can't be

legally implicated and I've rushed here to tell you so beforehand."

"Have they been burnt? murdered?"

"Murdered but not burnt, that's the trouble, but I give you my word of

honour that it's not been my fault, however much you may suspect me,

eh? Do you want the whole truth: you see the idea really did cross my

mind--you hinted it yourself, not seriously, but teasing me (for, of

course, you would not hint it seriously), but I couldn't bring myself

to it, and wouldn't bring myself to it for anything, not for a hundred

roubles--and what was there to be gained by it, I mean for me, for

me...." (He was in desperate haste and his talk was like the clacking of a

rattle.) "But what a coincidence of circumstances: I gave that drunken

fool Lebyadkin two hundred and thirty roubles of my own money (do you

hear, my own money, there wasn't a rouble of yours and, what's more, you

know it yourself) the day before yesterday, in the evening--do you hear,

not yesterday after the matinée, but the day before yesterday, make a

note of it: it's a very important coincidence for I did not know for

certain at that time whether Lizaveta Nikolaevna would come to you or

not; I gave my own money simply because you distinguished yourself by

taking it into your head to betray your secret to every one. Well, I

won't go into that... that's your affair... your chivalry, but I must

own I was amazed, it was a knock-down blow. And forasmuch as I was

exceeding weary of these tragic stories--and let me tell you, I talk

seriously though I do use Biblical language--as it was all upsetting

my plans in fact, I made up my mind at any cost, and without your

knowledge, to pack the Lebyadkins off to Petersburg, especially as he

was set on going himself. I made one mistake: I gave the money in your

name;--was it a mistake or not? Perhaps it wasn't a mistake, eh? Listen

now, listen how it has all turned out...."

In the heat of his talk he went close up to Stavrogin and took hold of

the revers of his coat (really, it may have been on purpose). With a

violent movement Stavrogin struck him on the arm.

"Come, what is it... give over... you'll break my arm... what matters

is the way things have turned out," he rattled on, not in the least

surprised at the blow. "I forked out the money in the evening on

condition that his sister and he should set off early next morning; I

trusted that rascal Liputin with the job of getting them into the train

and seeing them off. But that beast Liputin wanted to play his schoolboy

pranks on the public--perhaps you heard? At the matinée? Listen, listen:

they both got drunk, made up verses of which half are Liputin's; he

rigged Lebyadkin out in a dress-coat, assuring me meanwhile that he had

packed him off that morning, but he kept him shut somewhere in a back

room, till he thrust him on the platform at the matinée. But Lebyadkin

got drunk quickly and unexpectedly. Then came the scandalous scene you

know of, and then they got him home more dead than alive, and Liputin

filched away the two hundred roubles, leaving him only small change. But

it appears unluckily that already that morning Lebyadkin had taken that

two hundred roubles out of his pocket, boasted of it and shown it in

undesirable quarters. And as that was just what Fedka was expecting, and

as he had heard something at Kirillov's (do you remember, your hint?) he

made up his mind to take advantage of it. That's the whole truth. I

am glad, anyway, that Fedka did not find the money, the rascal was

reckoning on a thousand, you know! He was in a hurry and seems to have

been frightened by the fire himself.... Would you believe it, that fire

came as a thunderbolt for me. Devil only knows what to make of it! It is

taking things into their own hands.... You see, as I expect so much of

you I will hide nothing from you: I've long been hatching this idea of a

fire because it suits the national and popular taste; but I was keeping

it for a critical moment, for that precious time when we should all rise

up and... And they suddenly took it into their heads to do it, on their

own initiative, without orders, now at the very moment when we ought to

be lying low and keeping quiet! Such presumption!... The fact is, I've

not got to the bottom of it yet, they talk about two Shpigulin men, but

if there are any of _our_ fellows in it, if any one of them has had a hand

in it--so much the worse for him! You see what comes of letting people

get ever so little out of hand! No, this democratic rabble, with

its quintets, is a poor foundation; what we want is one magnificent,

despotic will, like an idol, resting on something fundamental and

external.... Then the quintets will cringe into obedience and be

obsequiously ready on occasion. But, anyway, though, they are all crying

out now that Stavrogin wanted his wife to be burnt and that that's what

caused the fire in the town, but..."

"Why, are they all saying that?"

"Well, not yet, and I must confess I have heard nothing of the sort, but

what one can do with people, especially when they've been burnt out! _Vox

populi vox Dei_. A stupid rumour is soon set going. But you really have

nothing to be afraid of. From the legal point of view you are all right,

and with your conscience also. For you didn't want it done, did you?

There's no clue, nothing but the coincidence.... The only thing is Fedka

may remember what you said that night at Kirillov's (and what made you

say it?) but that proves nothing and we shall stop Fedka's mouth. I

shall stop it to-day...."

"And weren't the bodies burnt at all?"

"Not a bit; that ruffian could not manage anything properly. But I am

glad, anyway, that you are so calm... for though you are not in any way

to blame, even in thought, but all the same.... And you must admit that

all this settles your difficulties capitally: you are suddenly free and

a widower and can marry a charming girl this minute with a lot of money,

who is already yours, into the bargain. See what can be done by crude,

simple coincidence--eh?"

"Are you threatening me, you fool?"

"Come, leave off, leave off! Here you are, calling me a fool, and what

a tone to use! You ought to be glad, yet you... I rushed here on purpose

to let you know in good time.... Besides, how could I threaten you?

As if I cared for what I could get by threats! I want you to help from

goodwill and not from fear. You are the light and the sun.... It's

I who am terribly afraid of you, not you of me! I am not Mavriky

Nikolaevitch.... And only fancy, as I flew here in a racing droshky I

saw Mavriky Nikolaevitch by the fence at the farthest corner of your

garden... in his greatcoat, drenched through, he must have been sitting

there all night! Queer goings on! How mad people can be!"

"Mavriky Nikolaevitch? Is that true?"

"Yes, yes. He is sitting by the garden fence. About three hundred paces

from here, I think. I made haste to pass him, but he saw me. Didn't you

know? In that case I am glad I didn't forget to tell you. A man like

that is more dangerous than anyone if he happens to have a revolver

about him, and then the night, the sleet, or natural irritability--for

after all he is in a nice position, ha ha! What do you think? Why is he

sitting there?"

"He is waiting for Lizaveta Nikolaevna, of course."

"Well! Why should she go out to him? And... in such rain too... what a

fool!"

"She is just going out to him!"

"Eh! That's a piece of news! So then... But listen, her position is

completely changed now. What does she want with Mavriky now? You

are free, a widower, and can marry her to-morrow. She doesn't know

yet--leave it to me and I'll arrange it all for you. Where is she? We

must relieve her mind too."

"Relieve her mind?"

"Rather! Let's go."

"And do you suppose she won't guess what those dead bodies mean?" said

Stavrogin, screwing up his eyes in a peculiar way.

"Of course she won't," said Pyotr Stepanovitch with all the confidence

of a perfect simpleton, "for legally... Ech, what a man you are! What

if she did guess? Women are so clever at shutting their eyes to such

things, you don't understand women! Apart from it's being altogether

to her interest to marry you now, because there's no denying she's

disgraced herself; apart from that, I talked to her of 'the boat' and I

saw that one could affect her by it, so that shows you what the girl is

made of. Don't be uneasy, she will step over those dead bodies without

turning a hair--especially as you are not to blame for them; not in the

least, are you? She will only keep them in reserve to use them against

you when you've been married two or three years. Every woman saves up

something of the sort out of her husband's past when she gets married,

but by that time... what may not happen in a year? Ha ha!"

"If you've come in a racing droshky, take her to Mavriky Nikolaevitch

now. She said just now that she could not endure me and would leave me,

and she certainly will not accept my carriage."

"What! Can she really be leaving? How can this have come about?" said

Pyotr Stepanovitch, staring stupidly at him.

"She's guessed somehow during this night that I don't love her... which

she knew all along, indeed."

"But don't you love her?" said Pyotr Stepanovitch, with an expression

of extreme surprise. "If so, why did you keep her when she came to you

yesterday, instead of telling her plainly like an honourable man that

you didn't care for her? That was horribly shabby on your part; and how

mean you make me look in her eyes!"

Stavrogin suddenly laughed.

"I am laughing at my monkey," he explained at once.

"Ah! You saw that I was putting it on!" cried Pyotr Stepanovitch,

laughing too, with great enjoyment. "I did it to amuse you! Only fancy,

as soon as you came out to me I guessed from your face that you'd been

'unlucky.' A complete fiasco, perhaps. Eh? There! I'll bet anything,"

he cried, almost gasping with delight, "that you've been sitting side by

side in the drawing-room all night wasting your precious time discussing

something lofty and elevated.... There, forgive me, forgive me; it's not

my business. I felt sure yesterday that it would all end in foolishness.

I brought her to you simply to amuse you, and to show you that you

wouldn't have a dull time with me. I shall be of use to you a hundred

times in that way. I always like pleasing people. If you don't want her

now, which was what I was reckoning on when I came, then..."

"So you brought her simply for my amusement?"

"Why, what else?"

"Not to make me kill my wife?"

"Come. You've not killed her? What a tragic fellow you are!

"It's just the same; you killed her."

"I didn't kill her! I tell you I had no hand in it.... You are beginning

to make me uneasy, though...."

"Go on. You said, 'if you don't want her now, then... '"

"Then, leave it to me, of course. I can quite easily marry her off to

Mavriky Nikolaevitch, though I didn't make him sit down by the fence.

Don't take that notion into your head. I am afraid of him, now. You talk

about my droshky, but I simply dashed by.... What if he has a revolver?

It's a good thing I brought mine. Here it is." He brought a revolver out

of his pocket, showed it, and hid it again at once. "I took it as I

was coming such a long way.... But I'll arrange all that for you in a

twinkling: her little heart is aching at this moment for Mavriky; it

should be, anyway.... And, do you know, I am really rather sorry for

her? If I take her to Mavriky she will begin about you directly; she

will praise you to him and abuse him to his face. You know the heart of

woman! There you are, laughing again! I am awfully glad that you are so

cheerful now. Come, let's go. I'll begin with Mavriky right away, and

about them... those who've been murdered... hadn't we better keep quiet

now? She'll hear later on, anyway."

"What will she hear? Who's been murdered? What were you saying about

Mavriky Nikolaevitch?" said Liza, suddenly opening the door.

"Ah! You've been listening?"

"What were you saying just now about Mavriky Nikolaevitch? Has he been

murdered?"

"Ah! Then you didn't hear? Don't distress yourself, Mavriky Nikolaevitch

is alive and well, and you can satisfy yourself of it in an instant,

for he is here by the wayside, by the garden fence... and I believe he's

been sitting there all night. He is drenched through in his greatcoat!

He saw me as I drove past."

"That's not true. You said 'murdered.'... Who's been murdered?" she

insisted with agonising mistrust.

"The only people who have been murdered are my wife, her brother

Lebyadkin, and their servant," Stavrogin brought out firmly.

Liza trembled and turned terribly pale.

"A strange brutal outrage, Lizaveta Nikolaevna. A simple case of

robbery," Pyotr Stepanovitch rattled off at once "Simply robbery, under

cover of the fire. The crime was committed by Fedka the convict, and it

was all that fool Lebyadkin's fault for showing every one his

money.... I rushed here with the news... it fell on me like a

thunderbolt. Stavrogin could hardly stand when I told him. We were

deliberating here whether to tell you at once or not?"

"Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, is he telling the truth?" Liza articulated

faintly.

"No; it's false."

"False?" said Pyotr Stepanovitch, starting. "What do you mean by that?"

"Heavens! I shall go mad!" cried Liza.

"Do you understand, anyway, that he is mad now!" Pyotr Stepanovitch

cried at the top of his voice. "After all, his wife has just been

murdered. You see how white he is.... Why, he has been with you the

whole night. He hasn't left your side a minute. How can you suspect

him?"

"Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, tell me, as before God, are you guilty or not,

and I swear I'll believe your word as though it were God's, and I'll

follow you to the end of the earth. Yes, I will. I'll follow you like a

dog."

"Why are you tormenting her, you fantastic creature?" cried Pyotr

Stepanovitch in exasperation. "Lizaveta Nikolaevna, upon my oath, you

can crush me into powder, but he is not guilty. On the contrary, it has

crushed him, and he is raving, you see that. He is not to blame in

any way, not in any way, not even in thought!... It's all the work of

robbers who will probably be found within a week and flogged.... It's

all the work of Fedka the convict, and some Shpigulin men, all the town

is agog with it. That's why I say so too."

"Is that right? Is that right?" Liza waited trembling for her final

sentence.

"I did not kill them, and I was against it, but I knew they were

going to be killed and I did not stop the murderers. Leave me, Liza,"

Stavrogin brought out, and he walked into the drawing-room.

Liza hid her face in her hands and walked out of the house. Pyotr

Stepanovitch was rushing after her, but at once hurried back and went

into the drawing-room.

"So that's your line? That's your line? So there's nothing you are

afraid of?" He flew at Stavrogin in an absolute fury, muttering

incoherently, scarcely able to find words and foaming at the mouth.

Stavrogin stood in the middle of the room and did not answer a word.

He clutched a lock of his hair in his left hand and smiled helplessly.

Pyotr Stepanovitch pulled him violently by the sleeve.

"Is it all over with you? So that's the line you are taking? You'll

inform against all of us, and go to a monastery yourself, or to the

devil.... But I'll do for you, though you are not afraid of me!"

"Ah! That's you chattering!" said Stavrogin, noticing him at last.

"Run," he said, coming to himself suddenly, "run after her, order the

carriage, don't leave her.... Run, run! Take her home so that no one

may know... and that she mayn't go there... to the bodies... to the

bodies.... Force her to get into the carriage... Alexey Yegorytch!

Alexey Yegorytch!"

"Stay, don't shout! By now she is in Mavriky's arms.... Mavriky won't

put her into your carriage.... Stay! There's something more important

than the carriage!"

He seized his revolver again. Stavrogin looked at him gravely.

"Very well, kill me," he said softly, almost conciliatorily.

"Foo. Damn it! What a maze of false sentiment a man can get into!" said

Pyotr Stepanovitch, shaking with rage. "Yes, really, you ought to be

killed! She ought simply to spit at you! Fine sort of 'magic boat,'

you are; you are a broken-down, leaky old hulk!... You ought to pull

yourself together if only from spite! Ech! Why, what difference would it

make to you since you ask for a bullet through your brains yourself?"

Stavrogin smiled strangely.

"If you were not such a buffoon I might perhaps have said yes now.... If

you had only a grain of sense..."

"I am a buffoon, but I don't want you, my better half, to be one! Do you

understand me?"

Stavrogin did understand, though perhaps no one else did. Shatov, for

instance, was astonished when Stavrogin told him that Pyotr Stepanovitch

had enthusiasm.

"Go to the devil now, and to-morrow perhaps I may wring something out of

myself. Come to-morrow."

"Yes? Yes?"

"How can I tell?... Go to hell. Go to hell." And he walked out of the

room.

"Perhaps, after all, it may be for the best," Pyotr Stepanovitch

muttered to himself as he hid the revolver.

III

He rushed off to overtake Lizaveta Nikolaevna. She had not got far

away, only a few steps, from the house. She had been detained by Alexey

Yegorytch, who was following a step behind her, in a tail coat, and

without a hat; his head was bowed respectfully. He was persistently

entreating her to wait for a carriage; the old man was alarmed and

almost in tears.

"Go along. Your master is asking for tea, and there's no one to give it

to him," said Pyotr Stepanovitch, pushing him away. He took Liza's arm.

She did not pull her arm away, but she seemed hardly to know what she

was doing; she was still dazed.

"To begin with, you are going the wrong way," babbled Pyotr

Stepanovitch. "We ought to go this way, and not by the garden, and,

secondly, walking is impossible in any case. It's over two miles, and

you are not properly dressed. If you would wait a second, I came in a

droshky; the horse is in the yard. I'll get it instantly, put you in,

and get you home so that no one sees you."

"How kind you are," said Liza graciously.

"Oh, not at all. Any humane man in my position would do the same...."

Liza looked at him, and was surprised.

"Good heavens! Why I thought it was that old man here still."

"Listen. I am awfully glad that you take it like this, because it's

all such a frightfully stupid convention, and since it's come to that,

hadn't I better tell the old man to get the carriage at once. It's only

a matter of ten minutes and we'll turn back and wait in the porch, eh?"

"I want first... where are those murdered people?"

"Ah! What next? That was what I was afraid of.... No, we'd better leave

those wretched creatures alone; it's no use your looking at them."

"I know where they are. I know that house."

"Well? What if you do know it? Come; it's raining, and there's a fog.

(A nice job this sacred duty I've taken upon myself.) Listen, Lizaveta

Nikolaevna! It's one of two alternatives. Either you come with me in the

droshky--in that case wait here, and don't take another step, for if we

go another twenty steps we must be seen by Mavriky Nikolaevitch."

"Mavriky Nikolaevitch! Where? Where?"

"Well, if you want to go with him, I'll take you a little farther, if

you like, and show you where he sits, but I don't care to go up to him

just now. No, thank you."

"He is waiting for me. Good God!" she suddenly stopped, and a flush of

colour flooded her face.

"Oh! Come now. If he is an unconventional man! You know, Lizaveta

Nikolaevna, it's none of my business. I am a complete outsider, and you

know that yourself. But, still, I wish you well.... If your 'fairy boat'

has failed you, if it has turned out to be nothing more than a rotten

old hulk, only fit to be chopped up..."

"Ah! That's fine, that's lovely," cried Liza.

"Lovely, and yet your tears are falling. You must have spirit. You must

be as good as a man in every way. In our age, when woman.... Foo, hang

it," Pyotr Stepanovitch was on the point of spitting. "And the chief

point is that there is nothing to regret. It may all turn out for the

best. Mavriky Nikolaevitch is a man.... In fact, he is a man of feeling

though not talkative, but that's a good thing, too, as long as he has no

conventional notions, of course...."

"Lovely, lovely!" Liza laughed hysterically.

"Well, hang it all... Lizaveta Nikolaevna," said Pyotr Stepanovitch

suddenly piqued. "I am simply here on your account.... It's nothing to

me.... I helped you yesterday when you wanted it yourself. To-day ...

well, you can see Mavriky Nikolaevitch from here; there he's sitting; he

doesn't see us. I say, Lizaveta Nikolaevna, have you ever read 'Polenka

Saxe'?"

"What's that?"

"It's the name of a novel, 'Polenka Saxe.' I read it when I was a

student.... In it a very wealthy official of some sort, Saxe, arrested

his wife at a summer villa for infidelity.... But, hang it; it's no

consequence! You'll see, Mavriky Nikolaevitch will make you an offer

before you get home. He doesn't see us yet."