He returned home very sad. Not that he was alarmed at Pyotr

Stepanovitch's leaving them so suddenly, but... he had turned away from

him so quickly when that young swell had called to him and... he might

have said something different to him, not "Au revoir," or... or at

least have pressed his hand more warmly. That last was bitterest of all.

Something else was beginning to gnaw in his poor little heart, something

which he could not understand himself yet, something connected with the

evening before.

CHAPTER VII. STEPAN TROFIMOVITCH'S LAST WANDERING

I

I am persuaded that Stepan Trofimovitch was terribly frightened as

he felt the time fixed for his insane enterprise drawing near. I am

convinced that he suffered dreadfully from terror, especially on the

night before he started--that awful night. Nastasya mentioned afterwards

that he had gone to bed late and fallen asleep. But that proves nothing;

men sentenced to death sleep very soundly, they say, even the night

before their execution. Though he set off by daylight, when a nervous

man is always a little more confident (and the major, Virginsky's

relative, used to give up believing in God every morning when the night

was over), yet I am convinced he could never, without horror, have

imagined himself alone on the high road in such a position. No doubt

a certain desperation in his feelings softened at first the terrible

sensation of sudden solitude in which he at once found himself as soon

as he had left Nastasya, and the corner in which he had been warm and

snug for twenty years. But it made no difference; even with the clearest

recognition of all the horrors awaiting him he would have gone out to

the high road and walked along it! There was something proud in the

undertaking which allured him in spite of everything. Oh, he might have

accepted Varvara Petrovna's luxurious provision and have remained living

on her charity, "_comme un_ humble dependent." But he had not accepted her

charity and was not remaining! And here he was leaving her of himself,

and holding aloft the "standard of a great idea, and going to die for it

on the open road." That is how he must have been feeling; that's how his

action must have appeared to him.

Another question presented itself to me more than once. Why did he run

away, that is, literally run away on foot, rather than simply drive

away? I put it down at first to the impracticability of fifty years and

the fantastic bent of his mind under the influence of strong emotion.

I imagined that the thought of posting tickets and horses (even if

they had bells) would have seemed too simple and prosaic to him; a

pilgrimage, on the other hand, even under an umbrella, was ever so much

more picturesque and in character with love and resentment. But now that

everything is over, I am inclined to think that it all came about in a

much simpler way. To begin with, he was afraid to hire horses because

Varvara Petrovna might have heard of it and prevented him from going by

force; which she certainly would have done, and he certainly would have

given in, and then farewell to the great idea forever. Besides, to take

tickets for anywhere he must have known at least where he was going. But

to think about that was the greatest agony to him at that moment; he

was utterly unable to fix upon a place. For if he had to fix on any

particular town his enterprise would at once have seemed in his own eyes

absurd and impossible; he felt that very strongly. What should he do in

that particular town rather than in any other? Look out for _ce marchand_?

But what _marchand_? At that point his second and most terrible question

cropped up. In reality there was nothing he dreaded more than _ce

marchand_, whom he had rushed off to seek so recklessly, though, of

course, he was terribly afraid of finding him. No, better simply the

high road, better simply to set off for it, and walk along it and to

think of nothing so long as he could put off thinking. The high road is

something very very long, of which one cannot see the end--like human

life, like human dreams. There is an idea in the open road, but what

sort of idea is there in travelling with posting tickets? Posting

tickets mean an end to ideas. _Vive la grande route_ and then as God

wills.

After the sudden and unexpected interview with Liza which I have

described, he rushed on, more lost in forgetfulness than ever. The high

road passed half a mile from Skvoreshniki and, strange to say, he was

not at first aware that he was on it. Logical reasoning or even distinct

consciousness was unbearable to him at this moment. A fine rain kept

drizzling, ceasing, and drizzling again; but he did not even notice

the rain. He did not even notice either how he threw his bag over his

shoulder, nor how much more comfortably he walked with it so. He must

have walked like that for nearly a mile or so when he suddenly stood

still and looked round. The old road, black, marked with wheel-ruts

and planted with willows on each side, ran before him like an endless

thread; on the right hand were bare plains from which the harvest had

long ago been carried; on the left there were bushes and in the distance

beyond them a copse.

And far, far away a scarcely perceptible line of the railway, running

aslant, and on it the smoke of a train, but no sound was heard. Stepan

Trofimovitch felt a little timid, but only for a moment. He heaved a

vague sigh, put down his bag beside a willow, and sat down to rest.

As he moved to sit down he was conscious of being chilly and wrapped

himself in his rug; noticing at the same time that it was raining, he

put up his umbrella. He sat like that for some time, moving his lips

from time to time and firmly grasping the umbrella handle. Images of all

sorts passed in feverish procession before him, rapidly succeeding one

another in his mind.

"Lise, Lise," he thought, "and with her _ce Maurice_.... Strange

people.... But what was the strange fire, and what were they talking

about, and who were murdered? I fancy Nastasya has not found out yet and

is still waiting for me with my coffee... cards? Did I really lose men

at cards? H'm! Among us in Russia in the times of serfdom, so called....

My God, yes--Fedka!"

He started all over with terror and looked about him. "What if that

Fedka is in hiding somewhere behind the bushes? They say he has a

regular band of robbers here on the high road. Oh, mercy, I... I'll

tell him the whole truth then, that I was to blame... and that I've

been miserable about him _for ten years_. More miserable than he was as

a soldier, and... I'll give him my purse. H'm! _J'ai en tout quarante

roubles; il prendra les roubles et il me tuera tout de même._"

In his panic he for some reason shut up the umbrella and laid it down

beside him. A cart came into sight on the high road in the distance

coming from the town.

"_Grace à Dieu_, that's a cart and it's coming at a walking pace; that

can't be dangerous. The wretched little horses here... I always said

that breed... It was Pyotr Ilyitch though, he talked at the club

about horse-breeding and I trumped him, _et puis_... but what's that

behind?... I believe there's a woman in the cart. A peasant and a woman,

_cela commence à être rassurant._ The woman behind and the man in front--

_c'est très rassurant._ There's a cow behind the cart tied by the horns,

_c'est rassurant au plus haut degré._"

The cart reached him; it was a fairly solid peasant cart. The woman was

sitting on a tightly stuffed sack and the man on the front of the cart

with his legs hanging over towards Stepan Trofimovitch. A red cow was,

in fact, shambling behind, tied by the horns to the cart. The man

and the woman gazed open-eyed at Stepan Trofimovitch, and Stepan

Trofimovitch gazed back at them with equal wonder, but after he had let

them pass twenty paces, he got up hurriedly all of a sudden and walked

after them. In the proximity of the cart it was natural that he

should feel safer, but when he had overtaken it he became oblivious

of everything again and sank back into his disconnected thoughts and

fancies. He stepped along with no suspicion, of course, that for the

two peasants he was at that instant the most mysterious and interesting

object that one could meet on the high road.

"What sort may you be, pray, if it's not uncivil to ask?" the woman

could not resist asking at last when Stepan Trofimovitch glanced

absent-mindedly at her. She was a woman of about seven and twenty,

sturdily built, with black eyebrows, rosy cheeks, and a friendly smile

on her red lips, between which gleamed white even teeth.

"You... you are addressing me?" muttered Stepan Trofimovitch with

mournful wonder.

"A merchant, for sure," the peasant observed confidently. He was a

well-grown man of forty with a broad and intelligent face, framed in a

reddish beard.

"No, I am not exactly a merchant, I... I... _moi c'est autre chose._"

Stepan Trofimovitch parried the question somehow, and to be on the safe

side he dropped back a little from the cart, so that he was walking on a

level with the cow.

"Must be a gentleman," the man decided, hearing words not Russian, and

he gave a tug at the horse.

"That's what set us wondering. You are out for a walk seemingly?" the

woman asked inquisitively again.

"You... you ask me?"

"Foreigners come from other parts sometimes by the train; your boots

don't seem to be from hereabouts...."

"They are army boots," the man put in complacently and significantly.

"No, I am not precisely in the army, I..."

"What an inquisitive woman!" Stepan Trofimovitch mused with vexation.

"And how they stare at me... _mais enfin_. In fact, it's strange that I

feel, as it were, conscience-stricken before them, and yet I've done

them no harm."

The woman was whispering to the man.

"If it's no offence, we'd give you a lift if so be it's agreeable."

Stepan Trofimovitch suddenly roused himself.

"Yes, yes, my friends, I accept it with pleasure, for I'm very tired;

but how am I to get in?"

"How wonderful it is," he thought to himself, "that I've been walking

so long beside that cow and it never entered my head to ask them for a

lift. This 'real life' has something very original about it."

But the peasant had not, however, pulled up the horse.

"But where are you bound for?" he asked with some mistrustfulness.

Stepan Trofimovitch did not understand him at once.

"To Hatovo, I suppose?"

"Hatov? No, not to Hatov's exactly... And I don't know him though I've

heard of him."

"The village of Hatovo, the village, seven miles from here."

"A village? _C'est charmant,_ to be sure I've heard of it...."

Stepan Trofimovitch was still walking, they had not yet taken him into

the cart. A guess that was a stroke of genius flashed through his mind.

"You think perhaps that I am... I've got a passport and I am a

professor, that is, if you like, a teacher... but a head teacher. I am a

head teacher. _Oui, c'est comme ça qu'on peut traduire._ I should be very

glad of a lift and I'll buy you... I'll buy you a quart of vodka for

it."

"It'll be half a rouble, sir; it's a bad road."

"Or it wouldn't be fair to ourselves," put in the woman.

"Half a rouble? Very good then, half a rouble. _C'est encore mieux; j'ai

en tout quarante roubles mais_..."

The peasant stopped the horse and by their united efforts Stepan

Trofimovitch was dragged into the cart, and seated on the sack by the

woman. He was still pursued by the same whirl of ideas. Sometimes he was

aware himself that he was terribly absent-minded, and that he was not

thinking of what he ought to be thinking of and wondered at it. This

consciousness of abnormal weakness of mind became at moments very

painful and even humiliating to him.

"How... how is this you've got a cow behind?" he suddenly asked the

woman.

"What do you mean, sir, as though you'd never seen one," laughed the

woman.

"We bought it in the town," the peasant put in. "Our cattle died last

spring... the plague. All the beasts have died round us, all of them.

There aren't half of them left, it's heartbreaking."

And again he lashed the horse, which had got stuck in a rut.

"Yes, that does happen among you in Russia... in general we Russians...

Well, yes, it happens," Stepan Trofimovitch broke off.

"If you are a teacher, what are you going to Hatovo for? Maybe you are

going on farther."

"I... I'm not going farther precisely.... _C'est-à-dire,_ I'm going to a

merchant's."

"To Spasov, I suppose?"

"Yes, yes, to Spasov. But that's no matter."

"If you are going to Spasov and on foot, it will take you a week in your

boots," laughed the woman.

"I dare say, I dare say, no matter, _mes amis_, no matter." Stepan

Trofimovitch cut her short impatiently.

"Awfully inquisitive people; but the woman speaks better than he does,

and I notice that since February 19,* their language has altered a

little, and... and what business is it of mine whether I'm going to

Spasov or not? Besides, I'll pay them, so why do they pester me."

*February 19, 1861, the day of the Emancipation of the Serfs, is

meant.--Translator's note.

"If you are going to Spasov, you must take the steamer," the peasant

persisted.

"That's true indeed," the woman put in with animation, "for if you

drive along the bank it's twenty-five miles out of the way."

"Thirty-five."

"You'll just catch the steamer at Ustyevo at two o'clock tomorrow," the

woman decided finally. But Stepan Trofimovitch was obstinately silent.

His questioners, too, sank into silence. The peasant tugged at his horse

at rare intervals; the peasant woman exchanged brief remarks with him.

Stepan Trofimovitch fell into a doze. He was tremendously surprised when

the woman, laughing, gave him a poke and he found himself in a rather

large village at the door of a cottage with three windows.

"You've had a nap, sir?"

"What is it? Where am I? Ah, yes! Well... never mind," sighed Stepan

Trofimovitch, and he got out of the cart.

He looked about him mournfully; the village scene seemed strange to him

and somehow terribly remote.

"And the half-rouble, I was forgetting it!" he said to the peasant,

turning to him with an excessively hurried gesture; he was evidently by

now afraid to part from them.

"We'll settle indoors, walk in," the peasant invited him.

"It's comfortable inside," the woman said reassuringly.

Stepan Trofimovitch mounted the shaky steps. "How can it be?" he

murmured in profound and apprehensive perplexity. He went into the

cottage, however. _"Elle l'a voulu"_ he felt a stab at his heart and again

he became oblivious of everything, even of the fact that he had gone

into the cottage.

It was a light and fairly clean peasant's cottage, with three windows

and two rooms; not exactly an inn, but a cottage at which people

who knew the place were accustomed to stop on their way through the

village. Stepan Trofimovitch, quite unembarrassed, went to the foremost

corner; forgot to greet anyone, sat down and sank into thought.

Meanwhile a sensation of warmth, extremely agreeable after three hours

of travelling in the damp, was suddenly diffused throughout his person.

Even the slight shivers that spasmodically ran down his spine--such as

always occur in particularly nervous people when they are feverish and

have suddenly come into a warm room from the cold--became all at once

strangely agreeable. He raised his head and the delicious fragrance of

the hot pancakes with which the woman of the house was busy at the stove

tickled his nostrils. With a childlike smile he leaned towards the woman

and suddenly said:

"What's that? Are they pancakes? _Mais... c'est charmant._"

"Would you like some, sir?" the woman politely offered him at once.

"I should like some, I certainly should, and... may I ask you for some

tea too," said Stepan Trofimovitch, reviving.

"Get the samovar? With the greatest pleasure."

On a large plate with a big blue pattern on it were served the

pancakes--regular peasant pancakes, thin, made half of wheat, covered

with fresh hot butter, most delicious pancakes. Stepan Trofimovitch

tasted them with relish.

"How rich they are and how good! And if one could only have _un doigt

d'eau de vie_."

"It's a drop of vodka you would like, sir, isn't it?"

"Just so, just so, a little, _un tout petit rien_."

"Five farthings' worth, I suppose?"

"Five, yes, five, five, five, _un tout petit rien_," Stepan Trofimovitch

assented with a blissful smile.

Ask a peasant to do anything for you, and if he can, and will, he

will serve you with care and friendliness; but ask him to fetch you

vodka--and his habitual serenity and friendliness will pass at once into

a sort of joyful haste and alacrity; he will be as keen in your

interest as though you were one of his family. The peasant who fetches

vodka--even though you are going to drink it and not he and he knows

that beforehand--seems, as it were, to be enjoying part of your future

gratification. Within three minutes (the tavern was only two paces

away), a bottle and a large greenish wineglass were set on the table

before Stepan Trofimovitch.

"Is that all for me!" He was extremely surprised. "I've always had vodka

but I never knew you could get so much for five farthings."

He filled the wineglass, got up and with a certain solemnity crossed the

room to the other corner where his fellow-traveller, the black-browed

peasant woman, who had shared the sack with him and bothered him with

her questions, had ensconced herself. The woman was taken aback, and

began to decline, but after having said all that was prescribed by

politeness, she stood up and drank it decorously in three sips, as women

do, and, with an expression of intense suffering on her face, gave back

the wineglass and bowed to Stepan Trofimovitch. He returned the bow with

dignity and returned to the table with an expression of positive pride

on his countenance.

All this was done on the inspiration of the moment: a second before he

had no idea that he would go and treat the peasant woman.

"I know how to get on with peasants to perfection, to perfection, and

I've always told them so," he thought complacently, pouring out the rest

of the vodka; though there was less than a glass left, it warmed and

revived him, and even went a little to his head.

_"Je suis malade tout à fait, mais ce n'est pas trop mauvais d'être

malade."_

"Would you care to purchase?" a gentle feminine voice asked close by

him.

He raised his eyes and to his surprise saw a lady--_une dame et elle en

avait l'air,_ somewhat over thirty, very modest in appearance, dressed not

like a peasant, in a dark gown with a grey shawl on her shoulders.

There was something very kindly in her face which attracted Stepan

Trofimovitch immediately. She had only just come back to the cottage,

where her things had been left on a bench close by the place where

Stepan Trofimovitch had seated himself. Among them was a portfolio,

at which he remembered he had looked with curiosity on going in, and a

pack, not very large, of American leather. From this pack she took out

two nicely bound books with a cross engraved on the cover, and offered

them to Stepan Trofimovitch.

"_Et... mais je crois que c'est l'Evangile..._ with the greatest

pleasure.... Ah, now I understand.... _Vous êtes ce qu'on appelle_ a

gospel-woman; I've read more than once.... Half a rouble?"

"Thirty-five kopecks," answered the gospel-woman. "With the greatest

pleasure. _Je n'ai rien contre l'Evangile,_ and I've been wanting to

re-read it for a long time...."

The idea occurred to him at the moment that he had not read the gospel

for thirty years at least, and at most had recalled some passages of it,

seven years before, when reading Renan's "Vie de Jésus." As he had no

small change he pulled out his four ten-rouble notes--all that he

had. The woman of the house undertook to get change, and only then

he noticed, looking round, that a good many people had come into the

cottage, and that they had all been watching him for some time past, and

seemed to be talking about him. They were talking too of the fire in the

town, especially the owner of the cart who had only just returned from

the town with the cow. They talked of arson, of the Shpigulin men.

"He said nothing to me about the fire when he brought me along, although

he talked of everything," struck Stepan Trofimovitch for some reason.

"Master, Stepan Trofimovitch, sir, is it you I see? Well, I never should

have thought it!... Don't you know me?" exclaimed a middle-aged man who

looked like an old-fashioned house-serf, wearing no beard and dressed

in an overcoat with a wide turn-down collar. Stepan Trofimovitch was

alarmed at hearing his own name.

"Excuse me," he muttered, "I don't quite remember you."

"You don't remember me. I am Anisim, Anisim Ivanov. I used to be in the

service of the late Mr. Gaganov, and many's the time I've seen you, sir,

with Varvara Petrovna at the late Avdotya Sergyevna's. I used to go to

you with books from her, and twice I brought you Petersburg sweets from

her...."

"Why, yes, I remember you, Anisim," said Stepan Trofimovitch, smiling.

"Do you live here?"

"I live near Spasov, close to the V---- Monastery, in the service

of Marta Sergyevna, Avdotya Sergyevna's sister. Perhaps your honour

remembers her; she broke her leg falling out of her carriage on her

way to a ball. Now her honour lives near the monastery, and I am in her

service. And now as your honour sees, I am on my way to the town to see

my kinsfolk."

"Quite so, quite so."

"I felt so pleased when I saw you, you used to be so kind to me,"

Anisim smiled delightedly. "But where are you travelling to, sir, all by

yourself as it seems.... You've never been a journey alone, I fancy?"

Stepan Trofimovitch looked at him in alarm.

"You are going, maybe, to our parts, to Spasov?"

"Yes, I am going to Spasov. _Il me semble que tout le monde va à

Spassof._"

"You don't say it's to Fyodor Matveyevitch's? They will be pleased to

see you. He had such a respect for you in old days; he often speaks of

you now."

"Yes, yes, to Fyodor Matveyevitch's."

"To be sure, to be sure. The peasants here are wondering; they make out

they met you, sir, walking on the high road. They are a foolish lot."

"I... I... Yes, you know, Anisim, I made a wager, you know, like an

Englishman, that I would go on foot and I..."

The perspiration came out on his forehead.

"To be sure, to be sure." Anisim listened with merciless curiosity. But

Stepan Trofimovitch could bear it no longer. He was so disconcerted that

he was on the point of getting up and going out of the cottage. But the

samovar was brought in, and at the same moment the gospel-woman, who

had been out of the room, returned. With the air of a man clutching at a

straw he turned to her and offered her tea. Anisim submitted and walked

away.

The peasants certainly had begun to feel perplexed: "What sort of person

is he? He was found walking on the high road, he says he is a teacher,

he is dressed like a foreigner, and has no more sense than a little

child; he answers queerly as though he had run away from someone, and

he's got money!" An idea was beginning to gain ground that information

must be given to the authorities, "especially as things weren't quite

right in the town." But Anisim set all that right in a minute. Going

into the passage he explained to every one who cared to listen that

Stepan Trofimovitch was not exactly a teacher but "a very learned man

and busy with very learned studies, and was a landowner of the district

himself, and had been living for twenty-two years with her excellency,

the general's widow, the stout Madame Stavrogin, and was by way of being

the most important person in her house, and was held in the greatest

respect by every one in the town. He used to lose by fifties and

hundreds in an evening at the club of the nobility, and in rank he was

a councillor, which was equal to a lieutenant-colonel in the army, which

was next door to being a colonel. As for his having money, he had

so much from the stout Madame Stavrogin that there was no reckoning

it"--and so on and so on.

_"Mais c'est une dame et très comme il faut,"_ thought Stepan

Trofimovitch, as he recovered from Anisim's attack, gazing with

agreeable curiosity at his neighbour, the gospel pedlar, who was,

however, drinking the tea from a saucer and nibbling at a piece of

sugar. "_Ce petit morceau de sucre, ce n'est rien...._ There is something

noble and independent about her, and at the same time--gentle. _Le comme

il faut tout pur,_ but rather in a different style."

He soon learned from her that her name was Sofya Matveyevna Ulitin and

she lived at K----, that she had a sister there, a widow; that she was a

widow too, and that her husband, who was a sub-lieutenant risen from the

ranks, had been killed at Sevastopol.

"But you are still so young, _vous n'avez pas trente ans_."

"Thirty-four," said Sofya Matveyevna, smiling.

"What, you understand French?"

"A little. I lived for four years after that in a gentleman's family,

and there I picked it up from the children."

She told him that being left a widow at eighteen she was for some time

in Sevastopol as a nurse, and had afterwards lived in various places,

and now she travelled about selling the gospel.

"_Mais, mon Dieu,_ wasn't it you who had a strange adventure in our town,

a very strange adventure?"

She flushed; it turned out that it had been she.

_"Ces vauriens, ces malheureux,"_ he began in a voice quivering with

indignation; miserable and hateful recollections stirred painfully in

his heart. For a minute he seemed to sink into oblivion.

"Bah, but she's gone away again," he thought, with a start, noticing

that she was not by his side. "She keeps going out and is busy about

something; I notice that she seems upset too.... _Bah, je deviens

egoiste!_"

He raised his eyes and saw Anisim again, but this time in the most

menacing surroundings. The whole cottage was full of peasants, and it

was evidently Anisim who had brought them all in. Among them were the

master of the house, and the peasant with the cow, two other peasants

(they turned out to be cab-drivers), another little man, half drunk,

dressed like a peasant but clean-shaven, who seemed like a townsman

ruined by drink and talked more than any of them. And they were all

discussing him, Stepan Trofimovitch. The peasant with the cow insisted

on his point that to go round by the lake would be thirty-five miles out

of the way, and that he certainly must go by steamer. The half-drunken

man and the man of the house warmly retorted:

"Seeing that, though of course it will be nearer for his honour on

the steamer over the lake; that's true enough, but maybe according to

present arrangements the steamer doesn't go there, brother."

"It does go, it does, it will go for another week," cried Anisim, more

excited than any of them.

"That's true enough, but it doesn't arrive punctually, seeing it's late

in the season, and sometimes it'll stay three days together at Ustyevo."

"It'll be there to-morrow at two o'clock punctually. You'll be at Spasov

punctually by the evening," cried Anisim, eager to do his best for

Stepan Trofimovitch.

_"Mais qu'est-ce qu'il a cet homme,"_ thought Stepan Trofimovitch,

trembling and waiting in terror for what was in store for him.

The cab-drivers, too, came forward and began bargaining with him; they

asked three roubles to Ustyevo. The others shouted that that was not too

much, that that was the fare, and that they had been driving from here

to Ustyevo all the summer for that fare.

"But... it's nice here too.... And I don't want..." Stepan Trofimovitch

mumbled in protest.

"Nice it is, sir, you are right there, it's wonderfully nice at Spasov

now and Fyodor Matveyevitch will be so pleased to see you."

"_Mon Dieu, mes amis,_ all this is such a surprise to me."

At last Sofya Matveyevna came back. But she sat down on the bench

looking dejected and mournful.

"I can't get to Spasov!" she said to the woman of the cottage.

"Why, you are bound to Spasov, too, then?" cried Stepan Trofimovitch,

starting.

It appeared that a lady had the day before told her to wait at Hatovo

and had promised to take her to Spasov, and now this lady had not turned

up after all.

"What am I to do now?" repeated Sofya Matveyevna.

"_Mais, ma chère et nouvelle amie,_ I can take you just as well as the

lady to that village, whatever it is, to which I've hired horses, and

to-morrow--well, to-morrow, we'll go on together to Spasov."

"Why, are you going to Spasov too?"

"_Mais que faire, et je suis enchanté!_ I shall take you with the greatest

pleasure; you see they want to take me, I've engaged them already.

Which of you did I engage?" Stepan Trofimovitch suddenly felt an intense

desire to go to Spasov.

Within a quarter of an hour they were getting into a covered trap, he

very lively and quite satisfied, she with her pack beside him, with a

grateful smile on her face. Anisim helped them in.

"A good journey to you, sir," said he, bustling officiously round the

trap, "it has been a treat to see you."

"Good-bye, good-bye, my friend, good-bye."

"You'll see Fyodor Matveyevitch, sir..."

"Yes, my friend, yes... Fyodor Petrovitch... only good-bye."

II

"You see, my friend... you'll allow me to call myself your friend,

n'est-ce pas?" Stepan Trofimovitch began hurriedly as soon as the trap

started. "You see I... _J'aime le peuple, c'est indispensable, mais il me

semble que je ne m'avais jamais vu de près. Stasie... cela va sans dire

qu'elle est aussi du peuple, mais le vrai peuple,_ that is, the real

ones, who are on the high road, it seems to me they care for nothing,

but where exactly I am going... But let bygones be bygones. I fancy I am

talking at random, but I believe it's from being flustered."

"You don't seem quite well." Sofya Matveyevna watched him keenly though

respectfully.

"No, no, I must only wrap myself up, besides there's a fresh wind, very

fresh in fact, but... let us forget that. That's not what I really meant

to say. _Chère et incomparable amie,_ I feel that I am almost happy, and

it's your doing. Happiness is not good for me for it makes me rush to

forgive all my enemies at once...."

"Why, that's a very good thing, sir."

"Not always, _chère innocente. L'Evangile... voyez-vous, désormais nous

prêcherons ensemble_ and I will gladly sell your beautiful little books.

Yes, I feel that that perhaps is an idea, _quelque chose de très nouveau

dans ce genre._ The peasants are religious, _c'est admis,_ but they don't

yet know the gospel. I will expound it to them.... By verbal explanation

one might correct the mistakes in that remarkable book, which I am of

course prepared to treat with the utmost respect. I will be of service

even on the high road. I've always been of use, I always told _them_ so _et

à cette chère ingrate...._ Oh, we will forgive, we will forgive, first

of all we will forgive all and always.... We will hope that we too shall

be forgiven. Yes, for all, every one of us, have wronged one another,

all are guilty!"

"That's a very good saying, I think, sir."

"Yes, yes.... I feel that I am speaking well. I shall speak to them very

well, but what was the chief thing I meant to say? I keep losing the

thread and forgetting.... Will you allow me to remain with you? I

feel that the look in your eyes and... I am surprised in fact at your

manners. You are simple-hearted, you call me 'sir,' and turn your cup

upside down on your saucer... and that horrid lump of sugar; but there's

something charming about you, and I see from your features.... Oh,

don't blush and don't be afraid of me as a man. _Chère et incomparable,

pour moi une femme c'est tout._ I can't live without a woman, but only

at her side, only at her side... I am awfully muddled, awfully. I can't

remember what I meant to say. Oh, blessed is he to whom God always sends

a woman and... and I fancy, indeed, that I am in a sort of ecstasy.

There's a lofty idea in the open road too! That's what I meant to say,

that's it--about the idea. Now I've remembered it, but I kept losing it

before. And why have they taken us farther. It was nice there too, but

here--_cela devien trop froid. A propos, j'ai en tout quarante roubles

et voilà cet argent,_ take it, take it, I can't take care of it, I shall

lose it or it will be taken away from me.... I seem to be sleepy, I've

a giddiness in my head. Yes, I am giddy, I am giddy, I am giddy. Oh, how

kind you are, what's that you are wrapping me up in?"

"You are certainly in a regular fever and I've covered you with my rug;

only about the money, I'd rather."

"Oh, for God's sake, _n'en parlons plus parce que cela me fait mal._ Oh,

how kind you are!"

He ceased speaking, and with strange suddenness dropped into a feverish

shivery sleep. The road by which they drove the twelve miles was not a

smooth one, and their carriage jolted cruelly. Stepan Trofimovitch woke

up frequently, quickly raised his head from the little pillow which

Sofya Matveyevna had slipped under it, clutched her by the hand and

asked "Are you here?" as though he were afraid she had left him. He told

her, too, that he had dreamed of gaping jaws full of teeth, and that he

had very much disliked it. Sofya Matveyevna was in great anxiety about

him.

They were driven straight up to a large cottage with a frontage of

four windows and other rooms in the yard. Stepan Trofimovitch waked up,

hurriedly went in and walked straight into the second room, which was

the largest and best in the house. An expression of fussiness came into

his sleepy face. He spoke at once to the landlady, a tall, thick-set

woman of forty with very dark hair and a slight moustache, and explained

that he required the whole room for himself, and that the door was to be

shut and no one else was to be admitted, "_parce que nous avons à parler.

Oui, j'ai beaucoup à vous dire, chère amie._ I'll pay you, I'll pay you,"

he said with a wave of dismissal to the landlady.

Though he was in a hurry, he seemed to articulate with difficulty. The

landlady listened grimly, and was silent in token of consent, but there

was a feeling of something menacing about her silence. He did not notice

this, and hurriedly (he was in a terrible hurry) insisted on her going

away and bringing them their dinner as quickly as possible, without a

moment's delay.

At that point the moustached woman could contain herself no longer.

"This is not an inn, sir; we don't provide dinners for travellers. We

can boil you some crayfish or set the samovar, but we've nothing more.

There won't be fresh fish till to-morrow."

But Stepan Trofimovitch waved his hands, repeating with wrathful

impatience: "I'll pay, only make haste, make haste."

They settled on fish, soup, and roast fowl; the landlady declared that

fowl was not to be procured in the whole village; she agreed, however,

to go in search of one, but with the air of doing him an immense favour.

As soon as she had gone Stepan Trofimovitch instantly sat down on the

sofa and made Sofya Matveyevna sit down beside him. There were several

arm-chairs as well as a sofa in the room, but they were of a most

uninviting appearance. The room was rather a large one, with a corner,

in which there was a bed, partitioned off. It was covered with old and

tattered yellow paper, and had horrible lithographs of mythological

subjects on the walls; in the corner facing the door there was a long

row of painted ikons and several sets of brass ones. The whole room with

its strangely ill-assorted furniture was an unattractive mixture of the

town element and of peasant traditions. But he did not even glance at it

all, nor look out of the window at the vast lake, the edge of which was

only seventy feet from the cottage.

"At last we are by ourselves and we will admit no one! I want to tell

you everything, everything from the very beginning."

Sofya Matveyevna checked him with great uneasiness.

"Are you aware, Stepan Trofimovitch?..."

_"Comment, vous savez déjà mon nom?"_ He smiled with delight.

"I heard it this morning from Anisim Ivanovitch when you were talking to

him. But I venture to tell you for my part..."

And she whispered hurriedly to him, looking nervously at the closed

door for fear anyone should overhear--that here in this village, it was

dreadful. That though all the peasants were fishermen, they made their

living chiefly by charging travellers every summer whatever they

thought fit. The village was not on the high road but an out-of-the-way

one, and people only called there because the steamers stopped there,

and that when the steamer did not call--and if the weather was in the

least unfavourable, it would not--then numbers of travellers would be

waiting there for several days, and all the cottages in the village

would be occupied, and that was just the villagers' opportunity, for

they charged three times its value for everything--and their landlord

here was proud and stuck up because he was, for these parts, very rich;

he had a net which had cost a thousand roubles.

Stepan Trofimovitch looked almost reproachfully at Sofya Matveyevna's

extremely excited face, and several times he made a motion to stop her.

But she persisted and said all she had to say: she said she had been

there before already in the summer "with a very genteel lady from the

town," and stayed there too for two whole days till the steamer came,

and what they had to put up with did not bear thinking of. "Here, Stepan

Trofimovitch, you've been pleased to ask for this room for yourself

alone.... I only speak to warn you.... In the other room there are

travellers already. An elderly man and a young man and a lady with

children, and by to-morrow before two o'clock the whole house will be

filled up, for since the steamer hasn't been here for two days it will

be sure to come to-morrow. So for a room apart and for ordering dinner,

and for putting out the other travellers, they'll charge you a price

unheard of even in the capital...."

But he was in distress, in real distress. "_Assez, mon enfant,_ I beseech

you, _nous avons notre argent--et après, le bon Dieu._ And I am surprised

that, with the loftiness of your ideas, you... _Assez, assez, vous me

tourmentez,_" he articulated hysterically, "we have all our future before

us, and you... you fill me with alarm for the future."

He proceeded at once to unfold his whole story with such haste that at

first it was difficult to understand him. It went on for a long time.

The soup was served, the fowl was brought in, followed at last by the

samovar, and still he talked on. He told it somewhat strangely and

hysterically, and indeed he was ill. It was a sudden, extreme effort

of his intellectual faculties, which was bound in his overstrained

condition, of course--Sofya Matveyevna foresaw it with distress all

the time he was talking--to result immediately afterwards in extreme

exhaustion. He began his story almost with his childhood, when, "with

fresh heart, he ran about the meadows; it was an hour before he reached

his two marriages and his life in Berlin. I dare not laugh, however. It

really was for him a matter of the utmost importance, and to adopt the

modern jargon, almost a question of struggling for existence." He saw

before him the woman whom he had already elected to share his new life,

and was in haste to consecrate her, so to speak. His genius must not be

hidden from her.... Perhaps he had formed a very exaggerated estimate

of Sofya Matveyevna, but he had already chosen her. He could not exist

without a woman. He saw clearly from her face that she hardly understood

him, and could not grasp even the most essential part. "_Ce n'est rien,

nous attendrons,_ and meanwhile she can feel it intuitively.... My

friend, I need nothing but your heart!" he exclaimed, interrupting his

narrative, "and that sweet enchanting look with which you are gazing at

me now. Oh, don't blush! I've told you already..." The poor woman who

had fallen into his hands found much that was obscure, especially when

his autobiography almost passed into a complete dissertation on the fact

that no one had been ever able to understand Stepan Trofimovitch,

and that "men of genius are wasted in Russia." It was all "so very

intellectual," she reported afterwards dejectedly. She listened in

evident misery, rather round-eyed. When Stepan Trofimovitch fell into

a humorous vein and threw off witty sarcasms at the expense of our

advanced and governing classes, she twice made grievous efforts to laugh

in response to his laughter, but the result was worse than tears, so

that Stepan Trofimovitch was at last embarrassed by it himself and

attacked "the nihilists and modern people" with all the greater wrath

and zest. At this point he simply alarmed her, and it was not until he

began upon the romance of his life that she felt some slight relief,

though that too was deceptive. A woman is always a woman even if she is

a nun. She smiled, shook her head and then blushed crimson and dropped

her eyes, which roused Stepan Trofimovitch to absolute ecstasy and

inspiration so much that he began fibbing freely. Varvara Petrovna

appeared in his story as an enchanting brunette (who had been the rage

of Petersburg and many European capitals) and her husband "had been

struck down on the field of Sevastopol" simply because he had felt

unworthy of her love, and had yielded her to his rival, that is, Stepan

Trofimovitch.... "Don't be shocked, my gentle one, my Christian," he

exclaimed to Sofya Matveyevna, almost believing himself in all that he

was telling, "it was something so lofty, so subtle, that we never spoke

of it to one another all our lives." As the story went on, the cause

of this position of affairs appeared to be a blonde lady (if not Darya

Pavlovna I don't know of whom Stepan Trofimovitch could have been

thinking), this blonde owed everything to the brunette, and had grown up

in her house, being a distant relation. The brunette observing at last

the love of the blonde girl to Stepan Trofimovitch, kept her feelings

locked up in her heart. The blonde girl, noticing on her part the love

of the brunette to Stepan Trofimovitch, also locked her feelings in her

own heart. And all three, pining with mutual magnanimity, kept silent in

this way for twenty years, locking their feelings in their hearts. "Oh,

what a passion that was, what a passion that was!" he exclaimed with a

stifled sob of genuine ecstasy. "I saw the full blooming of her beauty"

(of the brunette's, that is), "I saw daily with an ache in my heart

how she passed by me as though ashamed she was so fair" (once he said

"ashamed she was so fat"). At last he had run away, casting off all this

feverish dream of twenty years--_vingt ans_--and now here he was on the

high road....

Then in a sort of delirium be began explaining to Sofya Matveyevna the

significance of their meeting that day, "so chance an encounter and

so fateful for all eternity." Sofya Matveyevna got up from the sofa in

terrible confusion at last. He had positively made an attempt to drop on

his knees before her, which made her cry. It was beginning to get dark.

They had been for some hours shut up in the room....

"No, you'd better let me go into the other room," she faltered, "or else

there's no knowing what people may think...."

She tore herself away at last; he let her go, promising her to go to bed

at once. As they parted he complained that he had a bad headache. Sofya

Matveyevna had on entering the cottage left her bag and things in the

first room, meaning to spend the night with the people of the house; but

she got no rest.

In the night Stepan Trofimovitch was attacked by the malady with which

I and all his friends were so familiar--the summer cholera, which was

always the outcome of any nervous strain or moral shock with him. Poor

Sofya Matveyevna did not sleep all night. As in waiting on the invalid

she was obliged pretty often to go in and out of the cottage through the

landlady's room, the latter, as well as the travellers who were sleeping

there, grumbled and even began swearing when towards morning she set

about preparing the samovar. Stepan Trofimovitch was half unconscious

all through the attack; at times he had a vision of the samovar being

set, of someone giving him something to drink (raspberry tea), and

putting something warm to his stomach and his chest. But he felt almost

every instant that she was here, beside him; that it was she going out

and coming in, lifting him off the bed and settling him in it again.

Towards three o'clock in the morning he began to be easier; he sat up,

put his legs out of bed and thinking of nothing he fell on the floor

at her feet. This was a very different matter from the kneeling of the

evening; he simply bowed down at her feet and kissed the hem of her

dress.

"Don't, sir, I am not worth it," she faltered, trying to get him back on

to the bed.

"My saviour," he cried, clasping his hands reverently before her. "_Vous

êtes noble comme une marquise!_ I--I am a wretch. Oh, I've been dishonest

all my life...."

"Calm yourself!" Sofya Matveyevna implored him.

"It was all lies that I told you this evening--to glorify myself, to

make it splendid, from pure wantonness--all, all, every word, oh, I am a

wretch, I am a wretch!"

The first attack was succeeded in this way by a second--an attack

of hysterical remorse. I have mentioned these attacks already when I

described his letters to Varvara Petrovna. He suddenly recalled Lise

and their meeting the previous morning. "It was so awful, and there must

have been some disaster and I didn't ask, didn't find out! I thought

only of myself. Oh, what's the matter with her? Do you know what's the

matter with her?" he besought Sofya Matveyevna.

Then he swore that "he would never change," that he would go back to

her (that is, Varvara Petrovna). "We" (that is, he and Sofya Matveyevna)

"will go to her steps every day when she is getting into her carriage

for her morning drive, and we will watch her in secret.... Oh, I wish

her to smite me on the other cheek; it's a joy to wish it! I shall turn

her my other cheek _comme dans votre livre!_ Only now for the first time

I understand what is meant by... turning the other cheek. I never

understood before!"

The two days that followed were among the most terrible in Sofya

Matveyevna's life; she remembers them with a shudder to this day. Stepan

Trofimovitch became so seriously ill that he could not go on board the

steamer, which on this occasion arrived punctually at two o'clock in the

afternoon. She could not bring herself to leave him alone, so she

did not leave for Spasov either. From her account he was positively

delighted at the steamer's going without him.

"Well, that's a good thing, that's capital!" he muttered in his bed.

"I've been afraid all the time that we should go. Here it's so nice,

better than anywhere.... You won't leave me? Oh, you have not left me!"

It was by no means so nice "here", however. He did not care to hear of

her difficulties; his head was full of fancies and nothing else. He

looked upon his illness as something transitory, a trifling ailment, and

did not think about it at all; he thought of nothing but how they would

go and sell "these books." He asked her to read him the gospel.

"I haven't read it for a long time... in the original. Some one may ask

me about it and I shall make a mistake; I ought to prepare myself after

all."

She sat down beside him and opened the book.

"You read beautifully," he interrupted her after the first line. "I see,

I see I was not mistaken," he added obscurely but ecstatically. He was,

in fact, in a continual state of enthusiasm. She read the Sermon on the

Mount.

"_Assez, assez, mon enfant,_ enough.... Don't you think that that is

enough?"

And he closed his eyes helplessly. He was very weak, but had not yet

lost consciousness. Sofya Matveyevna was getting up, thinking that he

wanted to sleep. But he stopped her.

"My friend, I've been telling lies all my life. Even when I told the

truth I never spoke for the sake of the truth, but always for my own

sake. I knew it before, but I only see it now.... Oh, where are those

friends whom I have insulted with my friendship all my life? And all,

all! _Savez-vous..._ perhaps I am telling lies now; no doubt I am telling

lies now. The worst of it is that I believe myself when I am lying. The

hardest thing in life is to live without telling lies... and without

believing in one's lies. Yes, yes, that's just it.... But wait a bit,

that can all come afterwards.... We'll be together, together," he added

enthusiastically.

"Stepan Trofimovitch," Sofya Matveyevna asked timidly, "hadn't I better

send to the town for the doctor?"

He was tremendously taken aback.

"What for? _Est-ce que je suis si malade? Mais rien de sérieux._ What need

have we of outsiders? They may find, besides--and what will happen then?

No, no, no outsiders and we'll be together."

"Do you know," he said after a pause, "read me something more, just the

first thing you come across."

Sofya Matveyevna opened the Testament and began reading.

"Wherever it opens, wherever it happens to open," he repeated.

"'And unto the angel of the church of the Laodiceans...'"

"What's that? What is it? Where is that from?"

"It's from the Revelation."

"_Oh, je m'en souviens, oui, l'Apocalypse. Lisez, lisez,_ I am trying our

future fortunes by the book. I want to know what has turned up. Read on

from there...."

"'And unto the angel of the church of the Laodiceans write: These things

saith the Amen, the faithful and true witness, the beginning of the

creation of God;

"'I know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot;

I would thou wert cold or hot.

"'So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot,

I will spue thee out of my mouth.

"'Because thou sayest, I am rich and increased with goods,

and have need of nothing: and thou knowest not that thou art wretched,

and miserable, and poor, and blind, and naked.'"

"That too... and that's in your book too!" he exclaimed, with flashing

eyes and raising his head from the pillow. "I never knew that grand

passage! You hear, better be cold, better be cold than lukewarm, than

only lukewarm. Oh, I'll prove it! Only don't leave me, don't leave me

alone! We'll prove it, we'll prove it!"

"I won't leave you, Stepan Trofimovitch. I'll never leave you!" She took

his hand, pressed it in both of hers, and laid it against her heart,

looking at him with tears in her eyes. ("I felt very sorry for him at

that moment," she said, describing it afterwards.)

His lips twitched convulsively.

"But, Stepan Trofimovitch, what are we to do though? Oughtn't we to let

some of your friends know, or perhaps your relations?"

But at that he was so dismayed that she was very sorry that she had

spoken of it again. Trembling and shaking, he besought her to fetch no

one, not to do anything. He kept insisting, "No one, no one! We'll be

alone, by ourselves, alone, _nous partirons ensemble._"

Another difficulty was that the people of the house too began to be

uneasy; they grumbled, and kept pestering Sofya Matveyevna. She paid

them and managed to let them see her money. This softened them for the

time, but the man insisted on seeing Stepan Trofimovitch's "papers."

The invalid pointed with a supercilious smile to his little bag. Sofya

Matveyevna found in it the certificate of his having resigned his post

at the university, or something of the kind, which had served him as

a passport all his life. The man persisted, and said that "he must be

taken somewhere, because their house wasn't a hospital, and if he were

to die there might be a bother. We should have no end of trouble." Sofya

Matveyevna tried to speak to him of the doctor, but it appeared that

sending to the town would cost so much that she had to give up all

idea of the doctor. She returned in distress to her invalid. Stepan

Trofimovitch was getting weaker and weaker.

"Now read me another passage.... About the pigs," he said suddenly.

"What?" asked Sofya Matveyevna, very much alarmed.

"About the pigs... that's there too... _ces cochons._ I remember the

devils entered into swine and they all were drowned. You must read me

that; I'll tell you why afterwards. I want to remember it word for word.

I want it word for word."

Sofya Matveyevna knew the gospel well and at once found the passage in

St. Luke which I have chosen as the motto of my record. I quote it here

again:

"'And there was there one herd of many swine feeding on the mountain;

and they besought him that he would suffer them to enter into them. And

he suffered them.

"'Then went the devils out of the man and entered into the swine;

and the herd ran violently down a steep place into the lake, and were

choked.

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

told it in the city and in the country.

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

the man, out of whom the devils were departed, sitting at the feet of

Jesus, clothed, and in his right mind; and they were afraid.'"

"My friend," said Stepan Trofimovitch in great excitement "_savez-vous,_

that wonderful and... extraordinary passage has been a stumbling-block

to me all my life... _dans ce livre_.... so much so that I remembered

those verses from childhood. Now an idea has occurred to me; _une

comparaison._ A great number of ideas keep coming into my mind now. You

see, that's exactly like our Russia, those devils that come out of the

sick man and enter into the swine. They are all the sores, all the foul

contagions, all the impurities, all the devils great and small that have

multiplied in that great invalid, our beloved Russia, in the course of

ages and ages. _Oui, cette Russie que j'aimais toujours._ But a great

idea and a great Will will encompass it from on high, as with that

lunatic possessed of devils... and all those devils will come forth, all

the impurity, all the rottenness that was putrefying on the surface ...

and they will beg of themselves to enter into swine; and indeed maybe

they have entered into them already! They are we, we and those... and

Petrusha and _les autres avec lui..._ and I perhaps at the head of them,

and we shall cast ourselves down, possessed and raving, from the rocks

into the sea, and we shall all be drowned--and a good thing too, for

that is all we are fit for. But the sick man will be healed and

'will sit at the feet of Jesus,' and all will look upon him with

astonishment.... My dear, _vous comprendrez après,_ but now it excites me

very much.... _Vous comprendrez après. Nous comprendrons ensemble._"

He sank into delirium and at last lost consciousness. So it went on all

the following day. Sofya Matveyevna sat beside him, crying. She scarcely

slept at all for three nights, and avoided seeing the people of the

house, who were, she felt, beginning to take some steps. Deliverance

only came on the third day. In the morning Stepan Trofimovitch returned

to consciousness, recognised her, and held out his hand to her. She

crossed herself hopefully. He wanted to look out of the window. _"Tiens,

un lac!"_ he said. "Good heavens, I had not seen it before!..." At that

moment there was the rumble of a carriage at the cottage door and a

great hubbub in the house followed.

III

It was Varvara Petrovna herself. She had arrived, with Darya Pavlovna,

in a closed carriage drawn by four horses, with two footmen. The marvel

had happened in the simplest way: Anisim, dying of curiosity, went to

Varvara Petrovna's the day after he reached the town and gossiped to

the servants, telling them he had met Stepan Trofimovitch alone in a

village, that the latter had been seen by peasants walking by himself

on the high road, and that he had set off for Spasov by way of Ustyevo

accompanied by Sofya Matveyevna. As Varvara Petrovna was, for her

part, in terrible anxiety and had done everything she could to find her

fugitive friend, she was at once told about Anisim. When she had heard

his story, especially the details of the departure for Ustyevo in a cart

in the company of some Sofya Matveyevna, she instantly got ready and set

off post-haste for Ustyevo herself.

Her stern and peremptory voice resounded through the cottage; even the

landlord and his wife were intimidated. She had only stopped to question

them and make inquiries, being persuaded that Stepan Trofimovitch must

have reached Spasov long before. Learning that he was still here and

ill, she entered the cottage in great agitation.

"Well, where is he? Ah, that's you!" she cried, seeing Sofya Matveyevna,

who appeared at that very instant in the doorway of the next room. "I

can guess from your shameless face that it's you. Go away, you vile

hussy! Don't let me find a trace of her in the house! Turn her out, or

else, my girl, I'll get you locked up for good. Keep her safe for a time

in another house. She's been in prison once already in the town; she can

go back there again. And you, my good man, don't dare to let anyone in

while I am here, I beg of you. I am Madame Stavrogin, and I'll take the

whole house. As for you, my dear, you'll have to give me a full account

of it all."

The familiar sounds overwhelmed Stepan Trofimovitch. He began to

tremble. But she had already stepped behind the screen. With flashing

eyes she drew up a chair with her foot, and, sinking back in it, she

shouted to Dasha:

"Go away for a time! Stay in the other room. Why are you so inquisitive?

And shut the door properly after you."

For some time she gazed in silence with a sort of predatory look into

his frightened face.

"Well, how are you getting on, Stepan Trofimovitch? So you've been

enjoying yourself?" broke from her with ferocious irony.

_"Chère,"_ Stepan Trofimovitch faltered, not knowing what he was saying,

"I've learnt to know real life in Russia... _et je prêcherai l'Evangile._"

"Oh, shameless, ungrateful man!" she wailed suddenly, clasping her

hands. "As though you had not disgraced me enough, you've taken up

with... oh, you shameless old reprobate!"

_"Chère..."_ His voice failed him and he could not articulate a syllable

but simply gazed with eyes wide with horror.

"Who is she?"

"_C'est un ange; c'était plus qu'un ange pour moi._ She's been all

night... Oh, don't shout, don't frighten her, _chère, chère..._"

With a loud noise, Varvara Petrovna pushed back her chair, uttering a

loud cry of alarm.

"Water, water!"

Though he returned to consciousness, she was still shaking with terror,

and, with pale cheeks, looked at his distorted face. It was only then,

for the first time, that she guessed the seriousness of his illness.

"Darya," she whispered suddenly to Darya Pavlovna, "send at once for the

doctor, for Salzfish; let Yegorytch go at once. Let him hire horses here

and get another carriage from the town. He must be here by night."

Dasha flew to do her bidding. Stepan Trofimovitch still gazed at her

with the same wide-open, frightened eyes; his blanched lips quivered.

"Wait a bit, Stepan Trofimovitch, wait a bit, my dear!" she said,

coaxing him like a child. "There, there, wait a bit! Darya will come

back and... My goodness, the landlady, the landlady, you come, anyway,

my good woman!"

In her impatience she ran herself to the landlady.

"Fetch that woman back at once, this minute. Bring her back, bring her

back!"

Fortunately Sofya Matveyevna had not yet had time to get away and was

only just going out of the gate with her pack and her bag. She was

brought back. She was so panic-stricken that she was trembling in every

limb. Varvara Petrovna pounced on her like a hawk on a chicken, seized

her by the hand and dragged her impulsively to Stepan Trofimovitch.

"Here, here she is, then. I've not eaten her. You thought I'd eaten

her."

Stepan Trofimovitch clutched Varvara Petrovna's hand, raised it to his

eyes, and burst into tears, sobbing violently and convulsively.

"There, calm yourself, there, there, my dear, there, poor dear man!

Ach, mercy on us! Calm yourself, will you?" she shouted frantically.

"Oh, you bane of my life!"

"My dear," Stepan Trofimovitch murmured at last, addressing Sofya

Matveyevna, "stay out there, my dear, I want to say something here...."

Sofya Matveyevna hurried out at once.

_"Chérie... chérie..."_ he gasped.

"Don't talk for a bit, Stepan Trofimovitch, wait a little till you've

rested. Here's some water. Do wait, will you!"

She sat down on the chair again. Stepan Trofimovitch held her hand

tight. For a long while she would not allow him to speak. He raised her

hand to his lips and fell to kissing it. She set her teeth and looked

away into the corner of the room.

_"Je vous aimais,"_ broke from him at last. She had never heard such words

from him, uttered in such a voice.

"H'm!" she growled in response.

_"Je vous aimais toute ma vie... vingt ans!"_

She remained silent for two or three minutes.

"And when you were getting yourself up for Dasha you sprinkled yourself

with scent," she said suddenly, in a terrible whisper.

Stepan Trofimovitch was dumbfounded.

"You put on a new tie..."

Again silence for two minutes.

"Do you remember the cigar?"

"My friend," he faltered, overcome with horror.

"That cigar at the window in the evening... the moon was shining...

after the arbour... at Skvoreshniki? Do you remember, do you remember?"

She jumped up from her place, seized his pillow by the corners and shook

it with his head on it. "Do you remember, you worthless, worthless,

ignoble, cowardly, worthless man, always worthless!" she hissed in her

furious whisper, restraining herself from speaking loudly. At last

she left him and sank on the chair, covering her face with her hands.

"Enough!" she snapped out, drawing herself up. "Twenty years have

passed, there's no calling them back. I am a fool too."

_"Je vous aimais."_ He clasped his hands again.

"Why do you keep on with your _aimais_ and _aimais_? Enough!" she cried,

leaping up again. "And if you don't go to sleep at once I'll... You need

rest; go to sleep, go to sleep at once, shut your eyes. Ach, mercy on

us, perhaps he wants some lunch! What do you eat? What does he eat? Ach,

mercy on us! Where is that woman? Where is she?"

There was a general bustle again. But Stepan Trofimovitch faltered in a

weak voice that he really would like to go to sleep _une heure,_ and then

_un bouillon, un thé.... enfin il est si heureux._ He lay back and really

did seem to go to sleep (he probably pretended to). Varvara Petrovna

waited a little, and stole out on tiptoe from behind the partition.

She settled herself in the landlady's room, turned out the landlady and

her husband, and told Dasha to bring her _that_ woman. There followed an

examination in earnest.

"Tell me all about it, my good girl. Sit down beside me; that's right.

Well?"

"I met Stepan Trofimovitch..."

"Stay, hold your tongue! I warn you that if you tell lies or conceal

anything, I'll ferret it out. Well?"

"Stepan Trofimovitch and I... as soon as I came to Hatovo..." Sofya

Matveyevna began almost breathlessly.

"Stay, hold your tongue, wait a bit! Why do you gabble like that? To

begin with, what sort of creature are you?"

Sofya Matveyevna told her after a fashion, giving a very brief account

of herself, however, beginning with Sevastopol. Varvara Petrovna

listened in silence, sitting up erect in her chair, looking sternly

straight into the speaker's eyes.

"Why are you so frightened? Why do you look at the ground? I like people

who look me straight in the face and hold their own with me. Go on."

She told of their meeting, of her books, of how Stepan Trofimovitch had

regaled the peasant woman with vodka... "That's right, that's right,

don't leave out the slightest detail," Varvara Petrovna encouraged her.

At last she described how they had set off, and how Stepan Trofimovitch

had gone on talking, "really ill by that time," and here had given an

account of his life from the very beginning, talking for some hours.

"Tell me about his life."

Sofya Matveyevna suddenly stopped and was completely nonplussed.

"I can't tell you anything about that, madam," she brought out, almost

crying; "besides, I could hardly understand a word of it."

"Nonsense! You must have understood something."

"He told a long time about a distinguished lady with black hair." Sofya

Matveyevna flushed terribly though she noticed Varvara Petrovna's fair

hair and her complete dissimilarity with the "brunette" of the story.

"Black-haired? What exactly? Come, speak!"

"How this grand lady was deeply in love with his honour all her life

long and for twenty years, but never dared to speak, and was shamefaced

before him because she was a very stout lady...."

"The fool!" Varvara Petrovna rapped out thoughtfully but resolutely.

Sofya Matveyevna was in tears by now.

"I don't know how to tell any of it properly, madam, because I was in a

great fright over his honour; and I couldn't understand, as he is such

an intellectual gentleman."

"It's not for a goose like you to judge of his intellect. Did he offer

you his hand?"

The speaker trembled.

"Did he fall in love with you? Speak! Did he offer you his hand?"

Varvara Petrovna shouted peremptorily.

"That was pretty much how it was," she murmured tearfully. "But I took

it all to mean nothing, because of his illness," she added firmly,

raising her eyes.

"What is your name?"

"Sofya Matveyevna, madam."

"Well, then, let me tell you, Sofya Matveyevna, that he is a wretched

and worthless little man.... Good Lord! Do you look upon me as a wicked

woman?"

Sofya Matveyevna gazed open-eyed.

"A wicked woman, a tyrant? Who has ruined his life?"

"How can that be when you are crying yourself, madam?"

Varvara Petrovna actually had tears in her eyes.

"Well, sit down, sit down, don't be frightened. Look me straight in the

face again. Why are you blushing? Dasha, come here. Look at her. What do

you think of her? Her heart is pure...."

And to the amazement and perhaps still greater alarm of Sofya

Matveyevna, she suddenly patted her on the cheek.

"It's only a pity she is a fool. Too great a fool for her age. That's

all right, my dear, I'll look after you. I see that it's all nonsense.

Stay near here for the time. A room shall be taken for you and you shall

have food and everything else from me... till I ask for you."

Sofya Matveyevna stammered in alarm that she must hurry on.

"You've no need to hurry. I'll buy all your books, and meantime you stay

here. Hold your tongue; don't make excuses. If I hadn't come you would

have stayed with him all the same, wouldn't you?"

"I wouldn't have left him on any account," Sofya Matveyevna brought out

softly and firmly, wiping her tears.

It was late at night when Doctor Salzfish was brought. He was a very

respectable old man and a practitioner of fairly wide experience who had

recently lost his post in the service in consequence of some quarrel

on a point of honour with his superiors. Varvara Petrovna instantly

and actively took him under her protection. He examined the patient

attentively, questioned him, and cautiously pronounced to Varvara

Petrovna that "the sufferer's" condition was highly dubious in

consequence of complications, and that they must be prepared "even for

the worst." Varvara Petrovna, who had during twenty years got

accustomed to expecting nothing serious or decisive to come from Stepan

Trofimovitch, was deeply moved and even turned pale. "Is there really no

hope?"

"Can there ever be said to be absolutely no hope? But..." She did not go

to bed all night, and felt that the morning would never come. As soon

as the patient opened his eyes and returned to consciousness (he was

conscious all the time, however, though he was growing weaker every

hour), she went up to him with a very resolute air.

"Stepan Trofimovitch, one must be prepared for anything. I've sent for a

priest. You must do what is right...."

Knowing his convictions, she was terribly afraid of his refusing. He

looked at her with surprise.

"Nonsense, nonsense!" she vociferated, thinking he was already refusing.

"This is no time for whims. You have played the fool enough."

"But... am I really so ill, then?"

He agreed thoughtfully. And indeed I was much surprised to learn from

Varvara Petrovna afterwards that he showed no fear of death at all.

Possibly it was that he simply did not believe it, and still looked upon

his illness as a trifling one.

He confessed and took the sacrament very readily. Every one, Sofya

Matveyevna, and even the servants, came to congratulate him on taking

the sacrament. They were all moved to tears looking at his sunken and

exhausted face and his blanched and quivering lips.

"_Oui, mes amis,_ and I only wonder that you... take so much trouble. I

shall most likely get up to-morrow, and we will... set off.... _Toute

cette cérémonie_... for which, of course, I feel every proper respect...

was..."

"I beg you, father, to remain with the invalid," said Varvara Petrovna

hurriedly, stopping the priest, who had already taken off his vestments.

"As soon as tea has been handed, I beg you to begin to speak of

religion, to support his faith."

The priest spoke; every one was standing or sitting round the sick-bed.

"In our sinful days," the priest began smoothly, with a cup of tea in

his hand, "faith in the Most High is the sole refuge of the race of man

in all the trials and tribulations of life, as well as its hope for that

eternal bliss promised to the righteous."

Stepan Trofimovitch seemed to revive, a subtle smile strayed on his

lips.

_"Mon père, je vous remercie et vous êtes bien bon, mais..."_

"No _mais_ about it, no _mais_ at all!" exclaimed Varvara Petrovna,

bounding up from her chair. "Father," she said, addressing the priest,

"he is a man who... he is a man who... You will have to confess him

again in another hour! That's the sort of man he is."

Stepan Trofimovitch smiled faintly.

"My friends," he said, "God is necessary to me, if only because He is

the only being whom one can love eternally."

Whether he was really converted, or whether the stately ceremony of

the administration of the sacrament had impressed him and stirred the

artistic responsiveness of his temperament or not, he firmly and, I

am told, with great feeling uttered some words which were in flat

contradiction with many of his former convictions.

"My immortality is necessary if only because God will not be guilty

of injustice and extinguish altogether the flame of love for Him once

kindled in my heart. And what is more precious than love? Love is higher

than existence, love is the crown of existence; and how is it possible

that existence should not be under its dominance? If I have once loved

Him and rejoiced in my love, is it possible that He should extinguish me

and my joy and bring me to nothingness again? If there is a God, then I

am immortal. _Voilà ma profession de foi._"

"There is a God, Stepan Trofimovitch, I assure you there is," Varvara

Petrovna implored him. "Give it up, drop all your foolishness for once

in your life!" (I think she had not quite understood his _profession de

foi_.)

"My friend," he said, growing more and more animated, though his voice

broke frequently, "as soon as I understood... that turning of the cheek,

I... understood something else as well. _J'ai menti toute ma vie,_ all my

life, all! I should like... but that will do to-morrow.... To-morrow we

will all set out."

Varvara Petrovna burst into tears. He was looking about for someone.

"Here she is, she is here!" She seized Sofya Matveyevna by the hand and

led her to him. He smiled tenderly.

"Oh, I should dearly like to live again!" he exclaimed with an

extraordinary rush of energy. "Every minute, every instant of life ought

to be a blessing to man... they ought to be, they certainly ought to be!

It's the duty of man to make it so; that's the law of his nature, which

always exists even if hidden.... Oh, I wish I could see Petrusha... and

all of them... Shatov..."

I may remark that as yet no one had heard of Shatov's fate--not Varvara

Petrovna nor Darya Pavlovna, nor even Salzfish, who was the last to come

from the town.

Stepan Trofimovitch became more and more excited, feverishly so, beyond

his strength.

"The mere fact of the ever present idea that there exists something

infinitely more just and more happy than I am fills me through and

through with tender ecstasy--and glorifies me--oh, whoever I may be,

whatever I have done! What is far more essential for man than personal

happiness is to know and to believe at every instant that there is

somewhere a perfect and serene happiness for all men and for

everything.... The one essential condition of human existence is that

man should always be able to bow down before something infinitely great.

If men are deprived of the infinitely great they will not go on living

and will die of despair. The Infinite and the Eternal are as essential

for man as the little planet on which he dwells. My friends, all, all:

hail to the Great Idea! The Eternal, Infinite Idea! It is essential to

every man, whoever he may be, to bow down before what is the Great Idea.

Even the stupidest man needs something great. Petrusha... oh, how I want

to see them all again! They don't know, they don't know that that same

Eternal, Grand Idea lies in them all!"

Doctor Salzfish was not present at the ceremony. Coming in suddenly, he

was horrified, and cleared the room, insisting that the patient must not

be excited.

Stepan Trofimovitch died three days later, but by that time he was

completely unconscious. He quietly went out like a candle that is burnt

down. After having the funeral service performed, Varvara Petrovna

took the body of her poor friend to Skvoreshniki. His grave is in the

precincts of the church and is already covered with a marble slab. The

inscription and the railing will be added in the spring.

Varvara Petrovna's absence from town had lasted eight days. Sofya

Matveyevna arrived in the carriage with her and seems to have settled

with her for good. I may mention that as soon as Stepan Trofimovitch

lost consciousness (the morning that he received the sacrament) Varvara

Petrovna promptly asked Sofya Matveyevna to leave the cottage again, and

waited on the invalid herself unassisted to the end, but she sent for

her at once when he had breathed his last. Sofya Matveyevna was terribly

alarmed by Varvara Petrovna's proposition, or rather command, that she

should settle for good at Skvoreshniki, but the latter refused to listen

to her protests.

"That's all nonsense! I will go with you to sell the gospel. I have no

one in the world now."

"You have a son, however," Salzfish observed.

"I have no son!" Varvara Petrovna snapped out--and it was like a

prophecy.

CHAPTER VIII. CONCLUSION

ALL THE CRIMES AND VILLAINIES THAT had been perpetrated were discovered

with extraordinary rapidity, much more quickly than Pyotr Stepanovitch

had expected. To begin with, the luckless Marya Ignatyevna waked up

before daybreak on the night of her husband's murder, missed him and

flew into indescribable agitation, not seeing him beside her. The woman

who had been hired by Anna Prohorovna, and was there for the night,

could not succeed in calming her, and as soon as it was daylight ran

to fetch Arina Prohorovna herself, assuring the invalid that the latter

knew where her husband was, and when he would be back. Meantime Arina

Prohorovna was in some anxiety too; she had already heard from her

husband of the deed perpetrated that night at Skvoreshniki. He had

returned home about eleven o'clock in a terrible state of mind and

body; wringing his hands, he flung himself face downwards on his bed and

shaking with convulsive sobs kept repeating, "It's not right, it's not

right, it's not right at all!" He ended, of course, by confessing it all

to Arina Prohorovna--but to no one else in the house. She left him on

his bed, sternly impressing upon him that "if he must blubber he must do

it in his pillow so as not to be overheard, and that he would be a fool

if he showed any traces of it next day." She felt somewhat anxious,

however, and began at once to clear things up in case of emergency;

she succeeded in hiding or completely destroying all suspicious papers,

books, manifestoes perhaps. At the same time she reflected that she, her

sister, her aunt, her sister-in-law the student, and perhaps even her

long-eared brother had really nothing much to be afraid of. When the

nurse ran to her in the morning she went without a second thought to

Marya Ignatyevna's. She was desperately anxious, moreover, to find out

whether what her husband had told her that night in a terrified and

frantic whisper, that was almost like delirium, was true--that is,

whether Pyotr Stepanovitch had been right in his reckoning that Kirillov

would sacrifice himself for the general benefit.

But she arrived at Marya Ignatyevna's too late: when the latter had sent

off the woman and was left alone, she was unable to bear the suspense;

she got out of bed, and throwing round her the first garment she could

find, something very light and unsuitable for the weather, I believe,

she ran down to Kirillov's lodge herself, thinking that he perhaps would

be better able than anyone to tell her something about her husband. The

terrible effect on her of what she saw there may well be imagined. It

is remarkable that she did not read Kirillov's last letter, which lay

conspicuously on the table, overlooking it, of course, in her fright.

She ran back to her room, snatched up her baby, and went with it out of

the house into the street. It was a damp morning, there was a fog.

She met no passers-by in such an out-of-the-way street. She ran on

breathless through the wet, cold mud, and at last began knocking at the

doors of the houses. In the first house no one came to the door, in the

second they were so long in coming that she gave it up impatiently and

began knocking at a third door. This was the house of a merchant called

Titov. Here she wailed and kept declaring incoherently that her husband

was murdered, causing a great flutter in the house. Something was

known about Shatov and his story in the Titov household; they were

horror-stricken that she should be running about the streets in such

attire and in such cold with the baby scarcely covered in her arms,

when, according to her story, she had only been confined the day before.

They thought at first that she was delirious, especially as they could

not make out whether it was Kirillov who was murdered or her husband.

Seeing that they did not believe her she would have run on farther,

but they kept her by force, and I am told she screamed and struggled

terribly. They went to Filipov's, and within two hours Kirillov's

suicide and the letter he had left were known to the whole town. The

police came to question Marya Ignatyevna, who was still conscious, and

it appeared at once that she had not read Kirillov's letter, and they

could not find out from her what had led her to conclude that her

husband had been murdered. She only screamed that if Kirillov was

murdered, then her husband was murdered, they were together. Towards

midday she sank into a state of unconsciousness from which she never

recovered, and she died three days later. The baby had caught cold and

died before her.

Arina Prohorovna not finding Marya Ignatyevna and the baby, and guessing

something was wrong, was about to run home, but she checked herself at

the gate and sent the nurse to inquire of the gentleman at the lodge

whether Marya Ignatyevna was not there and whether he knew anything

about her. The woman came back screaming frantically. Persuading her not

to scream and not to tell anyone by the time-honoured argument that "she

would get into trouble," she stole out of the yard.

It goes without saying that she was questioned the same morning as

having acted as midwife to Marya Ignatyevna; but they did not get much

out of her. She gave a very cool and sensible account of all she had

herself heard and seen at Shatov's, but as to what had happened she

declared that she knew nothing, and could not understand it.

It may well be imagined what an uproar there was in the town. A new

"sensation," another murder! But there was another element in this

case: it was clear that a secret society of murderers, incendiaries, and

revolutionists did exist, did actually exist. Liza's terrible death, the

murder of Stavrogin's wife, Stavrogin himself, the fire, the ball for

the benefit of the governesses, the laxity of manners and morals in

Yulia Mihailovna's circle.... Even in the disappearance of Stepan

Trofimovitch people insisted on scenting a mystery. All sorts of things

were whispered about Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch. By the end of the day

people knew of Pyotr Stepanovitch's absence too, and, strange to say,

less was said of him than of anyone. What was talked of most all that

day was "the senator." There was a crowd almost all day at Filipov's

house. The police certainly were led astray by Kirillov's letter. They

believed that Kirillov had murdered Shatov and had himself committed

suicide. Yet, though the authorities were thrown into perplexity,

they were not altogether hoodwinked. The word "park," for instance, so

vaguely inserted in Kirillov's letter, did not puzzle anyone as Pyotr

Stepanovitch had expected it would. The police at once made a rush

for Skvoreshniki, not simply because it was the only park in the

neighbourhood but also led thither by a sort of instinct because all the

horrors of the last few days were connected directly or indirectly with

Skvoreshniki. That at least is my theory. (I may remark that

Varvara Petrovna had driven off early that morning in chase of Stepan

Trofimovitch, and knew nothing of what had happened in the town.)

The body was found in the pond that evening. What led to the discovery

of it was the finding of Shatov's cap at the scene of the murder, where

it had been with extraordinary carelessness overlooked by the murderers.

The appearance of the body, the medical examination and certain

deductions from it roused immediate suspicions that Kirillov must have

had accomplices. It became evident that a secret society really did

exist of which Shatov and Kirillov were members and which was connected

with the manifestoes. Who were these accomplices? No one even thought of

any member of the quintet that day. It was ascertained that Kirillov

had lived like a hermit, and in so complete a seclusion that it had been

possible, as stated in the letter, for Fedka to lodge with him for so

many days, even while an active search was being made for him. The chief

thing that worried every one was the impossibility of discovering a

connecting-link in this chaos.

There is no saying what conclusions and what disconnected theories our

panic-stricken townspeople would have reached, if the whole mystery had

not been suddenly solved next day, thanks to Lyamshin.

He broke down. He behaved as even Pyotr Stepanovitch had towards the end

begun to fear he would. Left in charge of Tolkatchenko, and afterwards

of Erkel, he spent all the following day lying in his bed with his face

turned to the wall, apparently calm, not uttering a word, and scarcely

answering when he was spoken to. This is how it was that he heard

nothing all day of what was happening in the town. But Tolkatchenko,

who was very well informed about everything, took into his head by

the evening to throw up the task of watching Lyamshin which Pyotr

Stepanovitch had laid upon him, and left the town, that is, to put it

plainly, made his escape; the fact is, they lost their heads as Erkel

had predicted they would. I may mention, by the way, that Liputin had

disappeared the same day before twelve o'clock. But things fell out so

that his disappearance did not become known to the authorities till

the evening of the following day, when, the police went to question his

family, who were panic-stricken at his absence but kept quiet from fear

of consequences. But to return to Lyamshin: as soon as he was left alone

(Erkel had gone home earlier, relying on Tolkatchenko) he ran out of

his house, and, of course, very soon learned the position of affairs.

Without even returning home he too tried to run away without knowing

where he was going. But the night was so dark and to escape was so

terrible and difficult, that after going through two or three streets,

he returned home and locked himself up for the whole night. I believe

that towards morning he attempted to commit suicide but did not succeed.

He remained locked up till midday--and then suddenly he ran to the

authorities. He is said to have crawled on his knees, to have sobbed and

shrieked, to have kissed the floor crying out that he was not worthy to

kiss the boots of the officials standing before him. They soothed him,

were positively affable to him. His examination lasted, I am told, for

three hours. He confessed everything, everything, told every detail,

everything he knew, every point, anticipating their questions, hurried

to make a clean breast of it all, volunteering unnecessary information

without being asked. It turned out that he knew enough, and presented

things in a fairly true light: the tragedy of Shatov and Kirillov, the

fire, the death of the Lebyadkins, and the rest of it were relegated

to the background. Pyotr Stepanovitch, the secret society, the

organisation, and the network were put in the first place. When asked

what was the object of so many murders and scandals and dastardly

outrages, he answered with feverish haste that "it was with the idea of

systematically undermining the foundations, systematically destroying

society and all principles; with the idea of nonplussing every one and

making hay of everything, and then, when society was tottering, sick

and out of joint, cynical and sceptical though filled with an intense

eagerness for self-preservation and for some guiding idea, suddenly to

seize it in their hands, raising the standard of revolt and relying on a

complete network of quintets, which were actively, meanwhile, gathering

recruits and seeking out the weak spots which could be attacked."

In conclusion, he said that here in our town Pyotr Stepanovitch had

organised only the first experiment in such systematic disorder, so to

speak, as a programme for further activity, and for all the quintets--and

that this was his own (Lyamshin's) idea, his own theory, "and that he

hoped they would remember it and bear in mind how openly and properly

he had given his information, and therefore might be of use hereafter."

Being asked definitely how many quintets there were, he answered that

there were immense numbers of them, that all Russia was overspread with

a network, and although he brought forward no proofs, I believe his

answer was perfectly sincere. He produced only the programme of the

society, printed abroad, and the plan for developing a system of future

activity roughly sketched in Pyotr Stepanovitch's own handwriting. It

appeared that Lyamshin had quoted the phrase about "undermining the

foundation," word for word from this document, not omitting a single

stop or comma, though he had declared that it was all his own theory.

Of Yulia Mihailovna he very funnily and quite without provocation

volunteered the remark, that "she was innocent and had been made a

fool of." But, strange to say, he exonerated Nikolay Stavrogin from

all share in the secret society, from any collaboration with Pyotr

Stepanovitch. (Lyamshin had no conception of the secret and very absurd

hopes that Pyotr Stepanovitch was resting on Stavrogin.) According to

his story Nikolay Stavrogin had nothing whatever to do with the death of

the Lebyadkins, which had been planned by Pyotr Stepanovitch alone

and with the subtle aim of implicating the former in the crime, and

therefore making him dependent on Pyotr Stepanovitch; but instead of

the gratitude on which Pyotr Stepanovitch had reckoned with shallow

confidence, he had roused nothing but indignation and even despair in

"the generous heart of Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch." He wound up, by a hint,

evidently intentional, volunteered hastily, that Stavrogin was perhaps

a very important personage, but that there was some secret about that,

that he had been living among us, so to say, incognito, that he had some

commission, and that very possibly he would come back to us again

from Petersburg. (Lyamshin was convinced that Stavrogin had gone

to Petersburg), but in quite a different capacity and in different

surroundings, in the suite of persons of whom perhaps we should soon

hear, and that all this he had heard from Pyotr Stepanovitch, "Nikolay

Vsyevolodovitch's secret enemy."

Here I will note that two months later, Lyamshin admitted that he had

exonerated Stavrogin on purpose, hoping that he would protect him and

would obtain for him a mitigation in the second degree of his sentence,

and that he would provide him with money and letters of introduction

in Siberia. From this confession it is evident that he had an

extraordinarily exaggerated conception of Stavrogin's powers.

On the same day, of course, the police arrested Virginsky and in their

zeal took his whole family too. (Arina Prohorovna, her sister, aunt, and

even the girl student were released long ago; they say that Shigalov too

will be set free very shortly because he cannot be classed with any of

the other prisoners. But all that is so far only gossip.) Virginsky at

once pleaded guilty. He was lying ill with fever when he was arrested.

I am told that he seemed almost relieved; "it was a load off his heart,"

he is reported to have said. It is rumoured that he is giving his

evidence without reservation, but with a certain dignity, and has not

given up any of his "bright hopes," though at the same time he curses

the political method (as opposed to the Socialist one), in which he

had been unwittingly and heedlessly carried "by the vortex of combined

circumstances." His conduct at the time of the murder has been put in

a favourable light, and I imagine that he too may reckon on some

mitigation of his sentence. That at least is what is asserted in the

town.

But I doubt whether there is any hope for mercy in Erkel's case. Ever

since his arrest he has been obstinately silent, or has misrepresented

the facts as far as he could. Not one word of regret has been wrung

from him so far. Yet even the sternest of the judges trying him has

been moved to some compassion by his youth, by his helplessness, by the

unmistakable evidence that he is nothing but a fanatical victim of a

political impostor, and, most of all, by his conduct to his mother,

to whom, as it appears, he used to send almost the half of his small

salary. His mother is now in the town; she is a delicate and ailing

woman, aged beyond her years; she weeps and positively grovels on the

ground imploring mercy for her son. Whatever may happen, many among us

feel sorry for Erkel.

Liputin was arrested in Petersburg, where he had been living for a

fortnight. His conduct there sounds almost incredible and is difficult

to explain. He is said to have had a passport in a forged name and quite

a large sum of money upon him, and had every possibility of escaping

abroad, yet instead of going he remained in Petersburg. He spent some

time hunting for Stavrogin and Pyotr Stepanovitch. Suddenly he took to

drinking and gave himself up to a debauchery that exceeded all bounds,

like a man who had lost all reason and understanding of his position. He

was arrested in Petersburg drunk in a brothel. There is a rumour that he

has not by any means lost heart, that he tells lies in his evidence and

is preparing for the approaching trial hopefully (?) and, as it

were, triumphantly. He even intends to make a speech at the trial.

Tolkatchenko, who was arrested in the neighbourhood ten days after his

flight, behaves with incomparably more decorum; he does not shuffle

or tell lies, he tells all he knows, does not justify himself, blames

himself with all modesty, though he, too, has a weakness for rhetoric;

he tells readily what he knows, and when knowledge of the peasantry and

the revolutionary elements among them is touched upon, he positively

attitudinises and is eager to produce an effect. He, too, is meaning, I

am told, to make a speech at the trial. Neither he nor Liputin seem very

much afraid, curious as it seems.

I repeat that the case is not yet over. Now, three months afterwards,

local society has had time to rest, has recovered, has got over it, has

an opinion of its own, so much so that some people positively look

upon Pyotr Stepanovitch as a genius or at least as possessed of "some

characteristics of a genius." "Organisation!" they say at the club,

holding up a finger. But all this is very innocent and there are not

many people who talk like that. Others, on the other hand, do not deny

his acuteness, but point out that he was utterly ignorant of real life,

that he was terribly theoretical, grotesquely and stupidly one-sided,

and consequently shallow in the extreme. As for his moral qualities all

are agreed; about that there are no two opinions.

I do not know whom to mention next so as not to forget anyone. Mavriky

Nikolaevitch has gone away for good, I don't know where. Old Madame

Drozdov has sunk into dotage.... I have still one very gloomy story to

tell, however. I will confine myself to the bare facts.

On her return from Ustyevo, Varvara Petrovna stayed at her town house.

All the accumulated news broke upon her at once and gave her a terrible

shock. She shut herself up alone. It was evening; every one was tired

and went to bed early.

In the morning a maid with a mysterious air handed a note to Darya

Pavlovna. The note had, so she said, arrived the evening before, but

late, when all had gone to bed, so that she had not ventured to wake

her. It had not come by post, but had been put in Alexey Yegorytch's

hand in Skvoreshniki by some unknown person. And Alexey Yegorytch had

immediately set off and put it into her hands himself and had then

returned to Skvoreshniki.

For a long while Darya Pavlovna gazed at the letter with a beating

heart, and dared not open it. She knew from whom it came: the writer was

Nikolay Stavrogin. She read what was written on the envelope: "To Alexey

Yegorytch, to be given secretly to Darya Pavlovna."

Here is the letter word for word, without the slightest correction of

the defects in style of a Russian aristocrat who had never mastered the

Russian grammar in spite of his European education.

"Dear Darya Pavlovna,--At one time you expressed a wish to be my nurse

and made me promise to send for you when I wanted you. I am going away

in two days and shall not come back. Will you go with me?

"Last year, like Herzen, I was naturalised as a citizen of the canton

of Uri, and that nobody knows. There I've already bought a little house.

I've still twelve thousand roubles left; we'll go and live there for

ever. I don't want to go anywhere else ever.

"It's a very dull place, a narrow valley, the mountains restrict both

vision and thought. It's very gloomy. I chose the place because there

was a little house to be sold. If you don't like it I'll sell it and buy

another in some other place.

"I am not well, but I hope to get rid of hallucinations in that air.

It's physical, and as for the moral you know everything; but do you know

all?

"I've told you a great deal of my life, but not all. Even to you!

Not all. By the way, I repeat that in my conscience I feel myself

responsible for my wife's death. I haven't seen you since then, that's

why I repeat it. I feel guilty about Lizaveta Nikolaevna too; but you

know about that; you foretold almost all that.

"Better not come to me. My asking you to is a horrible meanness. And why

should you bury your life with me? You are dear to me, and when I was

miserable it was good to be beside you; only with you I could speak

of myself aloud. But that proves nothing. You defined it yourself, 'a

nurse'--it's your own expression; why sacrifice so much? Grasp this,

too, that I have no pity for you since I ask you, and no respect for

you since I reckon on you. And yet I ask you and I reckon on you. In

any case I need your answer for I must set off very soon. In that case I

shall go alone.

"I expect nothing of Uri; I am simply going. I have not chosen a gloomy

place on purpose. I have no ties in Russia--everything is as alien to

me there as everywhere. It's true that I dislike living there more than

anywhere; but I can't hate anything even there!

"I've tried my strength everywhere. You advised me to do this 'that I

might learn to know myself.' As long as I was experimenting for myself

and for others it seemed infinite, as it has all my life. Before your

eyes I endured a blow from your brother; I acknowledged my marriage in

public. But to what to apply my strength, that is what I've never seen,

and do not see now in spite of all your praises in Switzerland, which

I believed in. I am still capable, as I always was, of desiring to do

something good, and of feeling pleasure from it; at the same time I

desire evil and feel pleasure from that too. But both feelings are

always too petty, and are never very strong. My desires are too weak;

they are not enough to guide me. On a log one may cross a river but not

on a chip. I say this that you may not believe that I am going to Uri

with hopes of any sort.

"As always I blame no one. I've tried the depths of debauchery and

wasted my strength over it. But I don't like vice and I didn't want it.

You have been watching me of late. Do you know that I looked upon our

iconoclasts with spite, from envy of their hopes? But you had no need to

be afraid. I could not have been one of them for I never shared anything

with them. And to do it for fun, from spite I could not either, not

because I am afraid of the ridiculous--I cannot be afraid of the

ridiculous--but because I have, after all, the habits of a gentleman and

it disgusted me. But if I had felt more spite and envy of them I might

perhaps have joined them. You can judge how hard it has been for me, and

how I've struggled from one thing to another.

"Dear friend! Great and tender heart which I divined! Perhaps you dream

of giving me so much love and lavishing on me so much that is beautiful

from your beautiful soul, that you hope to set up some aim for me at

last by it? No, it's better for you to be more cautious, my love will

be as petty as I am myself and you will be unhappy. Your brother told me

that the man who loses connection with his country loses his gods, that

is, all his aims. One may argue about everything endlessly, but from me

nothing has come but negation, with no greatness of soul, no force.

Even negation has not come from me. Everything has always been petty and

spiritless. Kirillov, in the greatness of his soul, could not compromise

with an idea, and shot himself; but I see, of course, that he was

great-souled because he had lost his reason. I can never lose my reason,

and I can never believe in an idea to such a degree as he did. I cannot

even be interested in an idea to such a degree. I can never, never shoot

myself.

"I know I ought to kill myself, to brush myself off the earth like a

nasty insect; but I am afraid of suicide, for I am afraid of showing

greatness of soul. I know that it will be another sham again--the last

deception in an endless series of deceptions. What good is there in

deceiving oneself? Simply to play at greatness of soul? Indignation and

shame I can never feel, therefore not despair.

"Forgive me for writing so much. I wrote without noticing. A hundred

pages would be too little and ten lines would be enough. Ten lines would

be enough to ask you to be a nurse. Since I left Skvoreshniki I've been

living at the sixth station on the line, at the stationmaster's. I got

to know him in the time of debauchery five years ago in Petersburg. No

one knows I am living there. Write to him. I enclose the address.

"Nikolay Stavrogin."

Darya Pavlovna went at once and showed the letter to Varvara Petrovna.

She read it and asked Dasha to go out of the room so that she might read

it again alone; but she called her back very quickly.

"Are you going?" she asked almost timidly.

"I am going," answered Dasha.

"Get ready! We'll go together."

Dasha looked at her inquiringly.

"What is there left for me to do here? What difficulty will it make?

I'll be naturalised in Uri, too, and live in the valley.... Don't be

uneasy, I won't be in the way."

They began packing quickly to be in time to catch the midday train.

But in less than half an hour's time Alexey Yegorytch arrived from

Skvoreshniki. He announced that Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch had suddenly

arrived that morning by the early train, and was now at Skvoreshniki but

"in such a state that his honour did not answer any questions, walked

through all the rooms and shut himself up in his own wing...."

"Though I received no orders I thought it best to come and inform you,"

Alexey Yegorytch concluded with a very significant expression.

Varvara Petrovna looked at him searchingly and did not question him. The

carriage was got ready instantly. Varvara Petrovna set off with Dasha.

They say that she kept crossing herself on the journey.

In Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch's wing of the house all the doors were open

and he was nowhere to be seen.

"Wouldn't he be upstairs?" Fomushka ventured.

It was remarkable that several servants followed Varvara Petrovna while

the others all stood waiting in the drawing-room. They would never have

dared to commit such a breach of etiquette before. Varvara Petrovna saw

it and said nothing.

They went upstairs. There there were three rooms; but they found no one

there.

"Wouldn't his honour have gone up there?" someone suggested, pointing

to the door of the loft. And in fact, the door of the loft which was

always closed had been opened and was standing ajar. The loft was right

under the roof and was reached by a long, very steep and narrow wooden

ladder. There was a sort of little room up there too.

"I am not going up there. Why should he go up there?" said Varvara

Petrovna, turning terribly pale as she looked at the servants. They

gazed back at her and said nothing. Dasha was trembling.

Varvara Petrovna rushed up the ladder; Dasha followed, but she had

hardly entered the loft when she uttered a scream and fell senseless.

The citizen of the canton of Uri was hanging there behind the door. On

the table lay a piece of paper with the words in pencil: "No one is to

blame, I did it myself." Beside it on the table lay a hammer, a piece

of soap, and a large nail--obviously an extra one in case of need. The

strong silk cord upon which Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch had hanged himself

had evidently been chosen and prepared beforehand and was thickly

smeared with soap. Everything proved that there had been premeditation

and consciousness up to the last moment.

At the inquest our doctors absolutely and emphatically rejected all idea

of insanity.

THE END